


The Devil's Game

by 29Pieces



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Athos Whump, BAMFs, Blood and Injury, Brotherhood, Caretaking, Creepy Villain, Friendship, Gen, Guilty Aramis, Hostage Situations, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Protectiveness, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rescue, Violence, Whump, Worried Treville, Worried d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-06 19:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18395201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/29Pieces/pseuds/29Pieces
Summary: "You three intrigue me, Aramis. We must have a game. When Athos wakes, you will need to be ready. Either you will play along and participate in the game…" Their captor turned away from him to direct the pistol at Porthos instead. "Or I will kill both of your friends." Whump and H/C, but also lots of courage and friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour, mes amis! Here with another chapter fic. This one weighs in at 9 chapters and is way more heavy on the angst and whump than my previous two. Shout-out to Aini NuFire for always being a patient and helpful beta, even when she has to wait so long for the comfort and healing!
> 
> So you know what terrifies me? Insanity. I mean, true legit insanity in all its forms. But most especially in the presence of an intelligent mind. Basically, psychopaths! Psychopathy wasn't coined as a term until 1888, long after our musketeers, so no one would have had a name for a psychopath wandering around. But that doesn't mean they weren't there.
> 
> Probably the scariest thing about psychopaths is that because they have normal intelligence, they can see how they're "supposed" to act and feel, even if they're incapable of true emotion. With practice, they can fake every socially acceptable response. So you might chat with a psychopath every day and never, ever know. But let's be fair, not every psychopath is a killer, or even dangerous.
> 
> Some will go their whole lives blending in, living harmlessly among their peers.
> 
> This isn't one of those times.

**Chapter 1**

Athos woke to a pounding headache and throbbing skull, far worse than his usual hangovers. He groaned softly without opening his eyes, fighting back nausea—also unusual. What in heaven's name had he been drinking the night before? Athos barely recalled that he had left the tavern under Aramis's watchful eye. Beyond that, Athos had no memory of reaching his apartments at all.

Embarrassing. Athos rarely, if ever, truly blacked out from his drink. Were that not the case, he could be persuaded to go easier on the bottle.

With another groan, Athos tried to raise his hands to his head to soothe the ache, but found himself quite unable to move. Blearily, the musketeer blinked his eyes open, squinting against the torchlight scant inches from his face. Why was there a torch in his room?

And why couldn't he move his arms?

Athos pulled again with more urgency to no avail. His right arm was extended out to the side, wrist completely immobile and wrapped by something coarse and irritating. His left had little movement, held not by rope, but by someone else's hand.

This realization brought full wakefulness faster than a bucket of ice water. Athos's eyes widened and he scrabbled against the stone floor he was seated on; the metal grate he was lashed to prevented him from pulling away.

How and why he was bound were questions that would need answering, but only once he'd identified whoever was holding him. Athos's bleary eyes adjusted quickly to the torch light, revealing a man with a hat pulled low over his face. But Athos would know that hat anywhere.

"Aramis!" he gasped. "Thank heaven. What's happened? You're not harmed, are you?"

His compatriot didn't respond. Athos looked around in search of Porthos or d'Artagnan; Porthos had left before them and d'Artagnan had been on night duty, but that didn't mean they hadn't gotten caught up in whatever this was. But the room was pitch-black save for the small area immediately surrounding himself, Aramis, and the torch.

Dazed as he was from what he now suspected had been a blow to the head and not an aftereffect of the wine at all, it took Athos a precious minute to realize that Aramis hadn't moved on to free his other hand.

On the contrary, more rope had found its way around Athos's left wrist now as well, looping tightly.

Athos frowned at his friend in confusion. "Aramis… cut me loose. We have to get out of here."

Still, Aramis didn't reply. With deft motions, he wound the rope through the grate at Athos's back, securing him to it. Athos's mouth went dry.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, pulling now against the bonds; there was no give.

And still he got no response, leaving Athos all the more bewildered. What reason could Aramis possibly have for tying him up without a word of explanation? He might have suspected this was merely a nightmare he was trapped in, but the pounding of his head was too visceral for dreams and the rope scratched at his wrists with terrifying realness. And while Aramis might be a prankster at times, nothing like this was in his repertoire.

Taking a deep breath, Athos forced himself to calm down, preparing to ask again what had happened while he was unconscious to lead them here, but Aramis moved before he could. The sharpshooter picked the torch up off the stone floor and walked around behind the metal lattice in the center of what felt like an empty wine cellar. Athos was left in an inky pool of darkness barely relieved by the feeble flames now at his back. Someone, either Aramis or another unseen attacker, had taken his doublet, and his shirt wasn't enough to ward off the chill in his heart.

"Answer me, Aramis," Athos all but begged, more concerned with every passing second at his friend's silence, as well as his actions. He could hear Aramis just behind him, rustling movements the only response in the darkness.

Then more rope wound about his throat and Athos instinctively lurched.

"Aramis!" he cried out, unable to pull away, outstretched hands and awkward seated position allowing him no leverage. For a moment, he thought with panic that he was to be strangled, but this was  _Aramis_  and the rope pulled no tighter. The coarse hemp seemed to have been merely passed through the grating and fastened behind it. Not choking, but forcing Athos to sit upright, flush with the metal behind him.

Why, though. The unanswered question consumed the musketeer, why his closest friend was doing this to him. A dozen possibilities flitted through his mind: Aramis had been drugged. He was being blackmailed. He had taken a head injury and had no idea who he or Athos was. Athos had even heard tell of soldiers who had survived some traumatic event later losing themselves in re-imaginings of it, believing themselves back in some other place. Savoy was certainly such a trauma, but it had been ages ago and none of this scenario fit with that terrible night.

One thing was certain,  _something_ had happened, something dire for Aramis to be acting thus. Athos watched warily as his friend moved back around to the front again, face still hidden. Aramis dropped the torch on the ground and held up a rag.

Athos swallowed. "No, Aramis, don't," he said softly. "Don't-" The rest was cut off as the rag was pushed into his mouth and tied at the back of his head. Athos took several more deep breaths, silently pleading for Aramis to catch his eye so maybe he could find some clue of what was going on.

But Aramis only jerked on each rope end to make sure they were secure, then retrieved the torch once more, holding it down at his side so Athos could only see his shins standing in front of him. For a moment, the marksman didn't move or speak. With no way of knowing what was going on or what might be coming next, this was even worse. Athos didn't care to be stood over like this without being able to defend himself if necessary.

Though he was braced for the possibility of worse treatment if Aramis did indeed mistakenly take him for a threat, nothing more was done to him. Instead, Aramis's hoarse voice suddenly asked,

"Do you hate me?"

The question left Athos more bewildered than before. What was the point and purpose of all this? Why gag him and then start asking questions, having answered none of his own? And why would he even ask that, when surely he knew the answer?

Athos stared at Aramis without comprehension, but slowly shook his head.

No clarification was forthcoming. Aramis turned on his heel without another word, taking the torch with him. The air grew cold in the absence of the small flame and Athos felt a chill as darkness descended again. He tried to call out to his friend through the gag without success.

Somewhere at the other end of the room, a door swung shut with an echoing slam, leaving Athos immobile and silenced, alone in the dark.

.o.O.o.

Aramis clutched the torch in a white-knuckled grip, struggling to control the trembling of his hand. His baleful glower caught the man standing behind the door he'd just closed.

The man held a gloved finger up to his lips, piercing eyes watching him with discomfiting intensity. Aramis wanted to lunge at the man and unleash the fury trying to burst free, but didn't dare. All he could do was glower and helplessly start moving down the passageway indicated to him. Aramis walked slowly, hands slightly raised as he allowed the other man to pluck the torch away. A pistol pressed itself against his lower back and Aramis had to force himself not to jolt.

"Well done, Aramis," the man murmured. "You followed my instructions to the letter."

"As though I had a choice," Aramis snapped.

"But you do. Of course you do."

As they ascended the stairs to the main level of the estate, though, Aramis's eyes lit on another figure bound to one of the columnar supports in the open hall. Porthos looked as furious as Aramis felt. The servant holding a pistol to the seated musketeer's head was a direct contradiction to their captor's notion of Aramis having a choice in the matter.

"So," the other man said louder now that they were far enough away from the cellar that Athos wouldn't hear anything. "His answer?"

"He said no," Aramis snapped back though it was accompanied by a reassuring look towards Porthos; not that either of them could believe Athos would so easily lose faith in their brotherhood.

"No? Fascinating."

"Why are you doing this?" Aramis demanded as he turned to put his own back against the second column. With Porthos still at risk, he suffered their captor to bind his hands behind it.

"We've been through this already."

"I've just left my friend tied up in a cellar, thinking I turned on him," Aramis shouted as his feet were likewise lashed together. "Humor me with a better explanation as to  _why_."

Porthos rumbled something into the cloth between his teeth, though it earned no more than a prod against his temple from the gun clutched in the servant's hand. Their captor eyed him, then Aramis. Calmly, the man drew a nearby chair forward and seated himself in front of Aramis.

"You might as well sit," he pointed out. "I don't believe I shall send you in again until morning. We have some hours yet ahead of us."

Aramis remained on his feet. "Our captain will know we're missing by then," he snapped. "Our comrades will be looking for us. Release us now and you can still save yourself a great deal of trouble." They would have him arrested and hanged if Aramis had any say in it, but he wasn't about to mention this.

"Doubtless. In any case, either of you may leave this place whenever you choose."

Aramis and Porthos traded a skeptical look, and Aramis voiced the question for both of them: "…If?"

The man leaned forward, elbows on his knees with his chin resting on clasped hands. The piercing gaze lost none of its intensity, but there was something more in his eyes that sent a chill down Aramis's spine. Or perhaps it was not more, but  _less_ of what he saw. No emotion. No soul.

"You are all so fascinating," the man remarked. "This strange… connection that you share. You are very close with your compatriots, correct?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes. "Listen, Monsieur…?"

"You may call me Pierre."

"Listen, Pierre, I have no idea what you're looking for here. Yes, the musketeers are a brotherhood. Athos and Porthos are my closest friends, as you have made clear you already know, and now  _I_ want to know what our bond has to do with you?"

"I should very much like for you to kill Athos."

The words were delivered so simply, so without passion or feeling, that it took Aramis a moment for the request to fully register. When it did, he could do no more than gape at the man sitting before him, then release a bark of laughter.

"And I should very much like for you to go to hell."

"One day, doubtless." Pierre seemed untroubled, continuing to watch Aramis closely. "In any case, you asked what you must do to earn your freedom. You claim your bond to be so close. It is a strange thing that I do not understand, so I should enjoy examining this with greater care. What is this connection? What would it take for such a bond to be broken? I'm curious, Aramis, that is all. Athos awoke to find his closest friend restraining him alone in the dark, but does not hate you for it. Why ever not? What  _would_ he hate you for?"

"You had me ask if he hated me because you find our friendship… scientifically interesting?"

Nothing the man was saying made any sense, but every word left Aramis with a colder certainty that he was dealing with a madman, something dark and twisted in his mind. Such a man could never be reasoned with.

Pierre tilted his head. "I have little interest in science. It is personal curiosity, nothing more. The game ends when the bond is broken."

"By one of us killing him!"

"Or each other, if you prefer. Or by Athos's admission that you are nothing to him. Earn his hatred and earn your freedom."

A low rumble had been building in Porthos's chest, but now he shouted something into his gag, yanking at the ropes securing his arms behind him around the column. Pierre's eyes never left Aramis though he gestured in Porthos's direction. The servant slammed the butt of the gun across Porthos's cheek, snapping his head to the side.

"Touch him again and I'll kill you," Aramis snapped at the servant, who returned his gaze with bland indifference.

Pierre sighed. "A prime example of an illogical reaction. You would be in a better position without him. Porthos is nothing but a soldier I can use to ensure that you remain docile."

Aramis bristled at the idea that Porthos was in some way not worth his protection. Not to mention the infuriating description of being "docile", and the even more infuriating fact that he  _had_ been forced to follow every order given to him thus far.

"You know, Pierre, I don't think I'm interested in playing your game," he retorted. "We're not pawns to be manipulated to your whims or to satisfy your curiosity. I will never turn on either of them."

"And you believe they would feel the same?"

Aramis didn't have to look at Porthos first to know his answer, keeping Pierre's gaze as he firmly replied,

" _Yes_."

Pierre leaned forward again, nodding. "Then we shall have our game and put that to the test."

Another thought struck Aramis as he looked between the two men holding them captive. So far, they seemed to be the only ones involved with this scheme, and he hadn't seen a single other servant in the household.

"If I  _were_ to agree," he tried, "I'll need my pistol back. I'm a gunman, myself. Ask anyone in the garrison, it's my weapon of choice. That's the only way I'm going to play." With a loaded gun, he would only need one shot to eliminate Pierre, then he would at least stand a chance of taking the servant out by hand…

Pierre slowly rose to his feet, advancing on Aramis with the eyes of a predator. In spite of himself, Aramis was hard pressed to keep his face neutral, head held high as though unafraid. Pierre stopped with barely inches between himself and his captive, regarding him. Aramis felt as though they were locked in a contest in which the first man to blink was defeated. Another chill rippled across his skin at the lack of  _anything_ in Pierre's eyes.

After a long moment of stillness in the hall, Pierre's lip twitched. "You're trying to deceive me. I can see it."

"No."

"It's hardly unexpected. I am not angry. But I wonder, would your answer change if I were to tell you that you won't be using your weapon of choice, but mine?"

Anything with a long enough range might still be of some use. If given a sword, Aramis could probably at least incapacitate Pierre and reach Porthos before anything happened to him. "What would that be?" he asked.

Without moving back, Pierre reached into his pocket. He pulled out a length of wire and dangled it in front of Aramis's face.

"This."

"Not how I would kill a man," Aramis replied with a shrug.

"No? It's easier than you would think."

Without giving the marksman time to come up with an appropriate, witty rejoinder, Pierre slid his other gloved hand down the wire so that he had hold of both ends. He wrapped them several times around for better grip and smoothly reached up to touch the wire across Aramis's throat.

"Yes, I understand how it functions," Aramis tried, heart already fluttering with nerves, but any more was cut off as Pierre pressed his hands to the wide column on either side of Aramis's head. The wire dug in, not breaking skin or crippling his ability to breathe completely, but hard enough that he was left to draw in a ragged wheeze for air.

Aramis's eyes widened as he instinctively tried to pull away. The column at his back left him no room for retreat as Pierre leaned in closer.

"Guns," he murmured. "At such a distance, you would never see the life leave their body. But like this…"

Aramis was aware that there was almost no space between them, as he was aware that Porthos was starting to put up a fight again. This wasn't the first time he'd been threatened with death, but somehow this method was worse than those previous. The way he couldn't look away. The almost intimate closeness. The horrible knowledge that Pierre  _wanted_ him to struggle, and that he would do so by base instinct.

"Yes, you've made your point," Aramis managed to choke out.

Then Pierre's grip on the wire shifted just enough that the remainder of his airway was shut off.

Aramis's mouth fell open, automatically trying to gasp in precious oxygen. He struggled wildly, but his hands and feet were bound and Pierre's full weight was keeping the wire pressed across his throat.

"This is the best way to kill a man," Pierre whispered into Aramis's ear; the horror sliding through the musketeer's veins left him with goose-flesh, to be so close to his would-be killer, to know that if Pierre didn't release him then he would momentarily not only see but  _feel_ Aramis's life drain away.

Pierre leaned up again, shifting so that his and Aramis's gazes were locked together. "Do you not agree?" Pierre hummed, watching his victim even as stars began to burst in Aramis's vision. "You wouldn't really want to shoot Athos. It would be over so soon. But like this, you can watch every thought in his mind as it crosses his face, to the very moment that he realizes death is coming and he cannot stop it. Just as I can see it on yours."

Tears pricked in the corner of Aramis's eyes at the same time as the darkness began to creep in. He barely felt himself trying to fight free, aware of nothing but the lack of air and Pierre's proximity. And just when he was sure he was about to die, the pressure on his windpipe was released. Aramis gasped, hacking coughs bursting from his mouth as he was finally allowed to breathe.

When his vision cleared, Aramis found that Pierre hadn't moved, still leaning in towards him with the wire barely kissing the skin of his throat, still a looming threat. Aramis froze, wanting nothing but for Pierre to step back and take the evil wire with him. Somewhere in the background, Porthos sounded half out of his mind with anger, but Aramis couldn't tear his eyes away from Pierre long enough to offer his friend reassurance.

"Try to deceive me again," Pierre murmured, pressing in only enough on the wire to reinforce the threat, "and this is how Porthos will die. The game can still easily be played with only two."

"You- you're sick," Aramis gritted out between another rough fit of coughs.

"So I have been informed. Will you do as I ask?"

"I will  _not_ kill-" he coughed painfully, "-either of them."

"Hmm. Not yet." Pierre finally lowered his arms, taking the wire from Aramis's neck but not stepping back. "At any rate, I anticipate Athos will break first. But for now, the hour is late. We will continue in the morning."

He offered no other explanations, no other plans. With a sharp nod to the servant, who seated himself in the chair Pierre had vacated with a vigilant eye, the madman turned and disappeared down the hall.

Aramis slumped against the column, finally allowing himself to sink to the floor and extend his legs out in front of him. Porthos was trying to ask him something, urgent and upset, but Aramis could offer little more than a quick smile and a nod of confidence that he didn't feel. The marksman wanted to pretend he wasn't as shaken as he was by the close call.

And it sounded like Pierre was only just getting started.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back for chapter 2. I didn't mention earlier, but I will be posting on Monday and Thursday mornings (eastern time). We're going to start out by bouncing back in time briefly so everyone can see how our boys landed in this position! Thanks SO MUCH for everyone's response to this so far! :)

**Chapter 2**

_Earlier in the night_

The tavern was rowdy. Every corner stank of poor decisions and unwashed bodies. People were disgusting. And his mother had said  _he_ was an unclean spirit.

Pierre Bocuse sat at a table tucked away in the back of the tavern where he had the best vantage of the entire room. His eyes drifted over the other creatures there, analyzing each as his gaze passed. Most of these would sell their soul for another bottle, for just one more cup. The only thing they were able to feel was desire, greed, fear.

They bored him. Every human in this city was capable of those. Pierre couldn't personally describe such emotions but he knew them to be as common as humanity itself.

In any case, those people weren't what he was here for.

Pierre's gaze slid back to his original targets, watching the three with veiled curiosity.

One sat in the far corner, much as he himself was doing now. The dark haired head bowed low over the bottle. He contributed nothing to the tavern's nightly entertainment, little more than a silent fixture. This was Athos.

One sat at the nearby table where a card game was in high swing. He was as boisterous as Athos was silent, and only growing more so with every drink he took. He laughed easily and won easier, likely cheating. This was Porthos.

One sat across from the first, turned sideways in his chair so he could simultaneously flirt with the woman incessantly cooing at him and keep an eye on both the first two. Despite the quick wit hidden behind a jovial face, he seemed to have not a care in the world. This was Aramis.

Athos. Porthos. Aramis.

Each hard at work forgetting the day in their own chosen ways, the three bore little resemblance to the steely-faced soldiers Pierre had witnessed only a few mornings prior.

_It was only chance that Pierre had been so far into the center of Paris to begin with, depositing a gift to the Cardinal. The attack had been a random one, some Parisians who disapproved of the king, without the sense or control to find a better way to express it other than a stone's throw at one of Louis's musketeers._

_The one he later learned was called Aramis had fallen from his horse, unconscious from a bleeding gash, very nearly trampled by his own beast. The ensuing riot was instantaneous, the mob almost as fascinating in its swelling emotion as the response of the remaining two musketeers._

_They had already been the entire length of the street away from him; the wise move would have been to flee, to escape unharmed while the sharks' attention was on the one already bleeding. Instead, the two had turned and fought their way back INTO the mob. The rioters were hard pressed to get close enough to attack Aramis again with his horse still panicking—only sheer luck spared Aramis himself—and by the time it bolted the other musketeers had already reached him._

_They'd stood back to back in front of the fallen soldier, swords bared as the one he'd come to know as Athos fired a pistol into the air._

_"Are you so brave against a musketeer who can fight back? Come, try your luck!" he had bellowed; a foolish offer, for if the mob had been smart, they would have all rushed him together and easily overwhelmed the three._

_Yet they didn't, all hanging back with nervous looks and fearful eyes._

_"You attacked a king's musketeer," he'd continued, now as low and lethal as he had been ferocious. "You may have him if you wish, but first you have to get through me. Is that what you want?"_

_Looking at him, wielding his blade as someone more comfortable with swordplay than with breathing, and the giant beside him who appeared ready to separate heads from bodies with his bare hands, the mob clearly decided that was not at all what they wanted. Not one of them stepped forward in challenge. Pierre had watched them scatter like roaches before turning his intrigued eye back to the musketeers._

It was all quite fascinating.

Pierre had made inquiries about the three, drawing information from those who knew the soldiers with the mimicked smiles and charm that he'd learned from watching those who got what they wanted. And much had he learned. Pierre had found his next targets.

Across the tavern, the one called Porthos had finally left the card game, stumbling back to join the other two. Pierre got up, winding his way through the bodies to get near enough to hear them.

"-my turn to see to it everyone gets home safely," Aramis was saying with a grin, head barely inclining towards the oblivious Athos. "Go on, Porthos. I expect we'll be here for quite some time, so by all means go enjoy the 'beauty and serenity of Paris after dark'."

The words must have had some other meaning to them for both musketeers laughed, then Porthos bade the other two goodnight. Pierre pulled his hood over his head and walked out ahead of the other man, waiting in the dark until Porthos emerged and headed down the street alone.

.o.O.o.

At least Athos was a quiet drunk, Aramis thought as he lugged his friend away from the tavern towards his apartments close by. Surly and ungrateful, but quiet. Aramis didn't begrudge him these late nights; as much as Athos protected him and Porthos while on duty, Aramis was only too happy to look after him while they were off.

Still, he was looking forward to getting at least a little sleep before muster in the morning, and Aramis tried to pull Athos just a bit quicker down the darkened road.

"Almost there," he grunted, tightening his hold on Athos's arm slung about his shoulder. "Don't suppose you can stumble along any faster?"

Athos grunted unintelligibly, probably something sullen and grumpy, but Aramis paid him no mind.

"Can you help me?" a voice called softly from a side street.

Aramis stopped, looking around the empty roads in surprise, before backing up towards the street they had just passed—not an easy maneuver with a semi-conscious drunk in tow.

"Wait here," he ordered Athos, carefully extricating himself from his friend and leaving him propped against the near wall. He turned down the street, trying to squint into the darkness. "Someone there? Are you alright?"

He hurried forward only a few more steps before the sound of a grunt and a thud behind him had the musketeer whirling around in dismay.

"No, don't move, Aramis," a shadowy figure called out where Athos had just been standing. The swordsman was now a heap on the ground, unmoving, with the clear silhouette of a pistol aimed right at him. "At this range, I can't possibly miss him before you take another step."

Aramis cursed himself for having been so careless, so gullible. His single task had been in getting Athos home safely, and he'd failed. He tensed. "You know my name, but I don't believe I have yours."

"Toss your guns to the side. Then the blades."

"If it's money you're after, I should warn you that my friend there drank everything we brought," Aramis said, reluctantly removing his weapons, dropping them carefully to the side, and kicking them away. Until that pistol wasn't pointed at the defenseless Athos, Aramis didn't dare make a move.

"Down on the ground. Flat on your face."

Aramis's jaw clenched, not thrilled with the way this was progressing, but also not having much say in the matter. Moving slowly, the marksman dropped to his knees then lowered himself down the rest of the way. He kept his eyes latched onto the stranger, watching the shadowy form kneel over Athos and quickly divest him of his weapons as well. He scooped all of them up along with Aramis's, tying them into a bundle that he then slung about his shoulder. The man stood and took a few steps back.

"Pick him up."

Aramis frowned as he climbed back to his feet. "What?"

"You're going to carry him. Or if you prefer, we can leave him here, dead for the vultures to find. Make your choice, but do not take too long… Porthos is waiting for us and my servant has instructions to execute him if I do not return."

The stranger tossed something his way before Aramis could even process how this had all happened so fast when all he'd wanted was to take Athos home and then get some sleep. His reflexes were swift enough to catch the item, and Aramis's breath caught.

Porthos's pauldron. He would never have given it up unless taken by force. Aramis had no choice but to believe that his friend had somehow been taken captive, but how or for what purpose, he didn't know. Nor did he know how this man seemed to know all of them when Aramis was certain he'd never heard the voice before.

"What will it be?" the stranger prompted, pistol pointed at the fallen Athos. "Will you risk your two closest friends to save yourself?"

Aramis clenched his fists. Even if he rushed their captor and was able to best him, he didn't know where Porthos was being held and couldn't guarantee getting the information from this man in time. For now, he would have to play along.

"Alright. Don't shoot," he growled, stepping forward with palms raised. When he reached Athos, Aramis paused and looked up at the stranger again, trying to get a better look at his face. It was too dark on this street.

"Pick him up," the man repeated, taking the pauldron out of Aramis's hand and stepping back one more pace.

There was no use hoping for help; at this time of night no one would be easily roused to reach them before the stranger had killed them both, even assuming the citizens would involve themselves in a clearly dangerous situation. With nothing else to do, Aramis knelt and carefully slid Athos's arm around his shoulder again.

"This was easier when you held your own weight," he muttered to his unconscious friend, struggling to get him upright and then heave the dead weight up over his shoulder. And now there was no question of fighting back, burdened as he was. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

They started walking down the silent side street, following the stranger's directions. It was even slower going trying to carry Athos than it had been trying to support his stumbling feet, but their captor never gave the slightest hint of impatience or a desire to hurry. He remained silent, just far back enough that even if Aramis tried to lash out, he wouldn't be close enough. Aramis was still fully cognizant of the pistol pointed at his back.

But as they finally approached a large estate in a neighboring district of Paris, the marksman had a new worry: their captor seemed utterly unconcerned that Aramis could later identify exactly which home they had been taken to.

As cunningly as the rest of their capture had been carried out, he doubted this was a simple oversight.

That did not bode well.

By now, Aramis was puffing with the exertion of carrying Athos, stumbling more than his drunken friend had been. He had no strength left to contemplate attack while their captor unlocked the front door and drew it open. Exhausted, Aramis tripped through towards the main hall.

"Aramis!"

He drew up short, seeing Porthos seated with his back against a column, bound and lip split but otherwise not harmed. Another man stood beside him, pressing a pistol against his head.

"Sorry I'm late, our invitations were evidently delayed," Aramis said, wincing as he set Athos down with relief. "How did they get you?"

"I was stupid," Porthos muttered, looking downcast. "'e said Athos was hurt an' you'd sent 'im to find me. I was so worried, didn' stop to wonder 'ow you'd know where I was or why you wouldnta taken 'im home. Knocked me over the head soon's we got here. 'm sorry, Aramis."

"Seems we were both a bit gullible tonight, my friend," Aramis reassured him, moving to the second column where their kidnapper was directing him. He eyed the gun at Porthos's head and held still when he felt his hands pulled around the back and swiftly lashed together.

"Take this one downstairs," the other man said to the servant, nodding to Athos. "But nothing more. The rest will be Aramis's job."

"The rest of what?" Aramis snapped, suddenly suspicious. He glowered as the servant grabbed the unconscious swordsman by the feet and simply dragged him across the floor so that his head lolled to the side. "Hey! Be careful with him!" Going down stairs like that was not going to be pleasant.

"He'll live," their captor said, coming to stand before the bound musketeer.

"What do you want from us?"

"You three intrigue me, Aramis. We must have a game."

Aramis and Porthos traded an incredulous look. "A game," Aramis repeated. "Well, if it's cards you want to play, Porthos probably has an entire deck stashed somewhere-"

"That is not the sort of game I mean. Listen carefully, Aramis, because Athos will wake soon. When he does, you will need to be ready. You have a choice to make. Either you will play along and participate in the game…" Their captor turned away from him to direct the pistol at Porthos instead. "Or I will kill both of your friends."

"And what exactly does participating in your game entail?"

The servant returned, empty-handed now, and nodded to their captor. He then took up his place again by Porthos's side, retrieving a cloth and tying it around the musketeer's mouth. Porthos tried to duck away, but was soon gagged as Aramis's blood boiled.

"The first rule of the game," the man explained, "is that Athos must not know about me, or Jean here. As far as he is to know, you and he are the only ones here. If you break this rule, if you alert him to my presence in any way, you forfeit the game."

There was no question what that meant. Aramis had a bad feeling he knew where this was heading.

"Now then," the man said. "I'm going to cut you loose once you understand your task ahead. You and I will go down to the cellar together, while my servant remains here with Porthos. You will go to Athos as he begins to rouse. And then this is what you're going to do…"

.o.O.o.

_The next morning_

D'Artagnan was too tired to notice the newborn colors painting the sky as the sun finally began to rise. The bounce in his step couldn't be stopped, though, still riding the wave of delight to have his commission. Even if it did mean receiving the assignments no one else wanted, like the occasional night patrol. D'Artagnan didn't complain; he was lowest in the hierarchy, it was only fair.

Besides, he would still have time to see his friends for a while before finally being allowed to collapse into bed for some needed sleep.

D'Artagnan saw that the courtyard of the barracks was empty, no one yet sitting around the row of tables to break their fast. He tutted, remembering Porthos's promise that he would be up at dawn to eat with d'Artagnan and hear about the night duty. It was with a fond look, though, that d'Artagnan turned towards the stairs leading up to the barracks' rooms that housed the soldiers.

Porthos had said dawn, after all, surely he wouldn't mind a rude awakening to remind him of that promise.

D'Artagnan banged on Porthos's door with his gloved fist, then leaned against the doorway with a smile.

"Porthos," he called. "The sun is up, but you don't seem to be."

The newest musketeer waited for the groggy reply, but heard nothing. He shook his head again, smile widening. Doubtless, Porthos had been up late into the night with the other two at the tavern, finding or starting fights and cheating at cards. Then either he or Aramis would have seen Athos home, caring for their friend when he wasn't up to the task of caring for himself. If Aramis did not have that duty, he would likely be in some woman's bed right now.

D'Artagnan didn't judge any of the three for their respective vices; if anything, the predictability and steadfastness underlying each was a comfort.

But it did mean that he often ate alone for breakfast, which was why he planned to hold Porthos to his promise today.

Again, d'Artagnan banged on the door. "Porthos," he called again. "Don't think I won't drag you out of there myself!" As though he would have been physically capable of it, that was. When there was still no response, d'Artagnan shrugged. "Alright, you asked for it."

He pushed the door open, then stopped in surprise to see the neatly made bed. Strange, either Porthos was already awake and about somewhere, or he hadn't slept in his bed last night. D'Artagnan backed out and shut the door with a frown. He would have seen Porthos walking about, surely, were he already downstairs.

And while it was possible that Porthos was the one in a woman's bedchambers this morning, d'Artagnan was hard pressed to believe that his friend would have broken his promise for such a thing. It wasn't that d'Artagnan would be hurt to eat on his own… it was that Porthos had  _said_  he would be there.

And when Porthos specifically said he would be somewhere, nothing kept him from it.

Aramis hadn't emerged from the room next door to gripe at him to keep the noise down, so d'Artagnan knocked on that door next and then pushed it open without even waiting for an answer.

Also empty. Bed also made. Aramis hadn't come home the night before, either.

D'Artagnan knew the small knot of worry in his stomach was ridiculous, as there was no reason to believe something had happened to the two. But they  _were_ rather given to finding trouble. Or causing it. Closing the door again, d'Artagnan headed back down to the courtyard to take one more look around the training area, the stables, the kitchen.

No sign of any of his three friends, and by then the sun was fully visible on the horizon and other musketeers were starting to make their way down to have a bite to eat before muster. Treville had already emerged from his upper room, standing in his customary space against the railing where he could enjoy the morning air and survey the garrison.

No longer tired, d'Artagnan turned for the stairs. All logic said he was worrying needlessly. And yet his instincts said something was wrong— _had_ to be wrong, for Porthos to have forgotten his word. D'Artagnan hoped he was mistaken…

…but he couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, trouble was brewing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter really. Aramis is going to see Athos again... but as awful as Pierre is, methinks he's underestimated our boys. They're more clever than he gives them credit for. Enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

Aramis watched the walls slowly lighten with the rising sun, keeping a weather eye on the servant, Jean, as well. Their guard hadn't moved or spoken all through the night. Aramis didn't like him any more than he liked Pierre, something in his manner making him seem devoid of any actual humanity. It felt to the marksman as though Jean moved on cogs and clock workings rather than blood and soul.

He'd tried to sleep at least a little. Aramis would need to keep his wits about him and needed to rest, but sleep had eluded him. His throat felt bruised from the wire and his hands were going numb from being bound. And, of course, his mind refused to turn off the fear for his friends and anxiety over what Athos might think of him.

Worse, he was afraid of what he might still have to do in order to keep them all alive. With the sun coming up, Treville would be sure to miss them soon, but how long would it take for anyone to find them here? Aramis had no idea who Pierre was, no obvious connection to make anyone in the garrison consider him a suspect and come to call.

All they could do was hold out as long as possible and wait for an opportunity to escape or to be rescued. He sincerely doubted Pierre would permit any of them to walk away, even if he successfully convinced Athos to hate him.

No, Aramis could not— _would_ not—allow Athos to doubt, to believe any of this was real. Pierre had already alluded to sending him in to Athos again; Aramis would have to try and find a way to communicate what was going on without arousing suspicion. A single slip could cost them everything.

Aramis caught Porthos's eye, also awake. Beyond a grim sense of determination to make it through this, though, there was nothing for the two to share.

"Aramis, Porthos, good morning," Pierre greeted them, stepping into the light streaming through the hall.

"We need water," Aramis replied with a glare. "Food. For you to let us go."

Pierre nodded to Jean, who disappeared from the room as wordlessly as ever. Pierre then moved over to Porthos; the large musketeer growled fiercely at him through the cloth over his mouth, but their captor merely pulled the gag free.

"Why you doin' this?" Porthos instantly demanded. "What did Athos or Aramis ever do to you, anyway?"

"You imagine this to be some sort of revenge?" Pierre asked. "Have I not been clear, I'm simply interested in what draws you all so strangely together."

"It's called bein'  _friends_. What, you never had a friend?"

"Not likely," Aramis snorted, tugging at his bonds.

Pierre tilted his head, seeming unfazed. "If you mean, would I ever allow myself to be injured just because of a threat to someone else, no, of course not. And I have no desire for such a vulnerability."

Aramis studied the man as Jean re-emerged with a water skin and a goblet. The cup was brought to him first and held to his lips. Despite his initial hesitation, the liquid inside was cold and soothing, and poisoning them now would hardly make sense. He drank deeply and gratefully until the cup was removed.

"Water," he assured Porthos, seeing his friend's anxious eyes.

The cup was taken to Porthos next, who also drank his fill. Pierre, meanwhile, had returned to the chair in front of Aramis, again leaning forward to study the bound musketeer with an uncomfortably intense gaze.

"Athos will need water as well," Aramis tried, but he was quickly waved off.

"We'll get to that. But first, I want you to explain to me why that matters to you."

"What do you mean? If he doesn't get water, he'll die!"

The corner of Pierre's mouth tilted up and he shook his head. "Not for several days."

"You can't leave him there that long," Aramis whispered, feeling his heart grow cold. To be left alone in a pitch-black room, restrained and languishing without food or water or light or simple human contact for days on end… it would be torture. His pulse quickened in fear. "Pierre,  _please_. Don't do this."

"Would you take his place?"

"Yes!"

Pierre was out of his chair so fast, squatting in front of Aramis, that the marksman flinched. The madman didn't raise a hand, though, merely stared at him with the same empty-souled intensity as before.

" _Why_?"

"Because I want to protect him! You say you never had a friend… had you no brothers? No family? Lovers?"

"I had parents," Pierre replied, not backing away despite the uncomfortable proximity. "I don't see why that matters. Given the same offer I just gave you, I certainly wouldn't take it."

Aramis couldn't help but gape at him, at a loss for how to respond to such a statement. He himself hadn't been particularly close to his father, but… "Not even to save your own mother?"

Pierre shrugged. "My mother felt no more for me than I did for her. She once took me to have the Cardinal remove the 'unclean spirits' possessing me." The slight smile crossed his lips again, making the madman appear all the more sinister. "I don't believe it worked, in her eyes. I'm told she was a good, loving woman, but her skull split the same as any common thief's would, so what benefit did it bring her?"

Swallowing back the rush of nausea at the implication, Aramis shook his head. He'd had occasion to provide escort to dangerous criminals on their way to prison, or to trial, or to the gallows. He'd seen this sort of thing in some of those people.

"You don't feel anything, do you?" he asked softly, starting to understand. "Not fear. Not remorse. Certainly not love."

"No, I wouldn't know what any of that is like. Fear is useless, remorse even more so. Love is baffling in its absurdity. I can't imagine why anyone would choose it. Look at where it's gotten you."

"That proves how little you understand," Aramis snapped. "Yes, caring about someone else does make you vulnerable, but you don't seem to realize that it also makes you strong. I would risk my safety for my brothers, but they would do the same for me. We're there when the others need us. We-"

"Noble sentiments. But it won't protect you. Humans are fragile and easily broken, and whether you love or not, you're just a human. I wonder how long this bond of yours will last." Pierre stood up at last, stepping back. "You'll not be taking Athos's place, though. The game board is already set and it would do little good to exchange pieces now. You'll be going to see him soon. I trust you remember the primary rule of this game?"

From the other column, Porthos shifted. "You don' have to do this," he urged, dark eyes filled with obvious worry. "Let Athos join us up here. If you're so curious, maybe we can jus' talk, explain things to you-"

"Talking hasn't explained anything. I need to see it." Pierre drew a short knife, turning back to Aramis. "So, you will convince Athos that you and you alone are responsible for his condition. You will not mention me. This time, I will permit you to speak to him, but you must use everything you know of him to find what would hurt him most. Convince him that you are no friend of his, that you despise him. That you hate him."

"I can't-"

"I hope for Porthos's sake that you can," Pierre overrode him calmly. He nodded to the silently watching servant, who drew his pistol once again. "Surely even for you, it's not a difficult decision between a few hard words or this one's brains strewn across my floor?"

Aramis clenched his jaw against a wave of hatred for the man and flicked his eyes towards Porthos. His friend met his eyes with steely calm.

"You don' have to do it," Porthos reminded him softly—forgiveness and permission for Aramis to sacrifice him to spare Athos the heartbreak of betrayal.

Aramis regarded him, then turned back to Pierre. "Let me at least take Athos some water as well," he bargained. "Your game will last longer if he's awake and hale enough to participate."

Pierre pursed his lips, mulling it over, then nodded. "Very well. But I shall need something in return."

Of course he would. Aramis glared at the man suspiciously, waiting.

"You will bring back a bit of blood in payment. His blood, naturally. I do not require much, but if you return without it, I will take a great deal more from your friend Porthos."

"Fine by me," Porthos snapped. "Aramis, if he wants blood, let 'im get it from me-"

"Jean, gag him. You are not an active player in this, Porthos. I must insist that you allow Aramis to decide for himself."

Aramis scowled, but nodded. Athos had taken far worse; he could handle being knocked around a bit, and if it meant he got some water, then Aramis would do it. Already, he was formulating an idea of how he might let Athos know what was happening, and maybe together they could all survive this insanity.

.o.O.o.

Athos heard the door creaking open in the distance. He swallowed against the rope irritating the skin around his neck and wearily raised his head, squinting against the torchlight in the doorway. Though the door didn't close again behind him, there was no light coming from the other side and he wasn't certain now whether it was day or night. The absolute darkness he was kept in left him disoriented to time and he'd been in and out of fitful consciousness.

The swordsman's heart leaped to recognize Aramis in the glow of the torch, though it was with some trepidation that he watched his friend's hand reach towards him. If Aramis was still… confused… this might not be a good visit.

But Aramis only pulled the cloth free of Athos's mouth. Athos coughed and licked his cracked, parched lips. What he wouldn't do for a draught of ale or a glass of wine…

As though reading his thoughts, Aramis pulled off a water skin he'd carried in, holding it to Athos's lips.

Athos tried to control himself, but soon was gulping at the water with rather humiliating desperation. When he'd had his fill, the musketeer turned his head and sighed with small relief. Now if only Aramis would be equally kind enough to untie him and help find a way out of there…

"Aramis-" he started. "You have to listen to me-" Starting to turn back to his friend, Athos was cut off by an unexpected blow to the face, snapping his head back to the side and scraping his neck painfully against the rope looped around it.

The strike was hard enough for Athos to see stars, tasting blood on his lip. He growled softly in displeasure at the direction this was going.

"You have to listen to me," he started again, bracing himself for another hit. When Aramis didn't move, Athos continued, "It's  _me_ , it's Athos. I don't know what's happened to you, but we're  _friends_. We fight together as musketeers. We-"

"You think I just don't remember who you are?" Aramis interrupted, a harsh laugh that sounded nothing like him overriding Athos's words.

The marksman stepped forward to lean against the grate so that he was looming over Athos. The torch dipped to hover close enough to Athos's face that he instinctively tried to move back. The rope around his neck rubbed again as Athos had to wrench his head up in order to look up at Aramis, though the angle, Aramis's hat and the shadows cast by the torch prevented him from seeing more than half his face.

Aramis snorted again. "Comte de la Fere, Monsieur Athos, Treville's favorite pet who can do no wrong, so high above us mere mortals. Don't be absurd, Athos, I haven't lost my mind."

Athos frowned. Even if he could ever believe that Aramis— _Aramis_ —was susceptible to bitterness and envy, this was not the way he showed scorn. Vitriol emerged from the marksman under the guise of a smile and a deprecating joke, not with contempt ringing of self-pity. Athos tugged at the ropes binding his wrists to the grate and demanded,

"This cannot be your doing, Aramis. Someone's forcing your hand, aren't they?"

Aramis barked in scathing laughter again, rapping his fingertips on the grate. "Oh yes, of course that would be your first assumption. Ever the egoist,  _Comte_ , believing no one could ever just… not like you."

In fact, there was quite a number of people who were no fans of Athos, which Aramis knew well; just as he knew Treville wasn't one to hold favorites. Athos regarded Aramis, starting to get an inkling that he was on the right path. 'Oh yes', Aramis had replied. The tapping on the grate. Two taps. Their non-verbal response for  _yes_.

Athos kept his face blank, contemplating his next words carefully. He shook his head with disdainful snort of his own. "And yet, you are the one who everyone loves." Athos paused, then in his normal even tone: "If they could see you now."

Again, Aramis drummed his fingertips twice over the grate.

 _Yes_. Yes, someone could see him now. Someone was watching, making sure he played his part in whatever this was. Athos's eyes flicked to where the door probably stood open, if he could see it for the darkness. Anyone could easily be hiding in the shadows of the doorway, taking in the sight.

As dire as the situation still was, Athos couldn't help but feel a swell of abundant relief at the news. An enemy, they could handle, as long as they were in it together. Fighting against something gone wrong in Aramis's mind would have been much harder.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, both to keep up pretenses and to allow Aramis the opportunity to try and communicate something—anything—that might help. "What have I done to you to warrant such sudden abhorrence?"

"Is it not obvious?" Aramis scoffed, breaking away now to start circling the grate. "I've always abhorred you, Athos. The airs you put on, as though you're better than us. The way Treville coddles you, just by virtue of your nobility. You make a mistake on a mission, and he brushes it off like it's nothing. Nothing! But let me bring you back to reality."

Aramis had made it back around to the front again, once more standing over Athos with the torch hovering perilously close to the swordsman's face.

"The reality is," Aramis went on with a harsh bite in his voice, "if we make a mistake, someone could get hurt. Sometimes, people even die."

He was drumming his fingertips on the grate again, drawing Athos's attention to the hidden message. Athos's mind whirled around the tidbit, easy to decipher as it merely confirmed what he had been afraid of the whole time: someone else's life was at stake, maybe even forfeit if Aramis slipped up or failed to play his part.

"You believe I don't know this?" Athos shot back. "You believe it's on you to teach me this lesson? Aramis, this is madness! What would Porthos think if he knew what you were doing? Or d'Artagnan?"

_Porthos or d'Artagnan?_

"Porthos," Aramis growled, drumming his fingers twice, "would agree with me."

So, Porthos was the leverage being used to secure Aramis's cooperation in this scheme. But not d'Artagnan. That was something. The lad was resourceful and more clever than even Athos gave him credit for, and once they failed to arrive at the garrison, he would throw his all into finding them.

If they could hold out that long. Athos bit back a sigh, wishing he could spare Aramis such a terrible position to be placed in.

Clearly he was meant to believe that Aramis was working of his own accord, but he couldn't fathom the purpose, or whether it would be better to act as though Aramis had successfully deceived him or not. Athos was loathe to play into the hands of whoever was controlling the charade, though.

"No, my friend, he would not," Athos urged, opting to stand by his brother until Aramis advised him to do otherwise. "It's not too late to put an end to this. Cut me loose, and we'll both forget this ever happened. Aramis, please. How do you think this is going to end?"

"That depends on you."

Two taps. A true statement. Athos frowned.

"I don't understand."

"We're not brothers, you and I. The sooner you accept that, the sooner this ends. So… do you hate me yet?"

 _The sooner this ends…_ Athos shivered, not sure if Aramis meant it would end and they could go home, or it would end and they would be killed. He suspected the latter.

"Ought I?" he asked softly.

Aramis slammed his hand down on the grate; just once. A resounding no. "You tell me, Athos."

Athos raised his eyes to Aramis's shadowed form and murmured with all the earnestness he possessed, "Then no, Aramis. You  _are_ my brother. Nothing you do to me will change that. This isn't you, I  _know_ it isn't. I could never hate you."

As before, Aramis immediately turned and walked away, hopefully taking at least a little comfort in the reassurance. Athos watched the light retreating, shivering in its absence. When the door slammed closed, he was once again left in utter darkness, still held immobilized by the ropes binding his wrists and neck, but at least the gag hadn't been replaced.

His jaw tightened with anger at whoever had put Aramis into this predicament, but also at himself. By now, he couldn't fail to realize that they had probably been abducted on their way back from the tavern.

Aramis wouldn't have taken that route at all if he hadn't been assisting Athos home. Further, if Athos hadn't been drunk then perhaps he might have been able to help fight. It was with a sinking heart that the musketeer realized that not only had he failed to protect Aramis, he'd probably been a hindrance—maybe even the very reason their captors had been able to subdue them at all.

And they, whoever  _they_ were, wanted to drive him and Aramis apart? Why on earth should they go to so much trouble for such a thing? Kidnapping not one but three musketeers, all for the sake of orchestrating a rift between them, only to possibly kill them once they'd succeeded. He might have suspected Milady's hand, but Aramis would have found a way to identify her to him in their disguised communication.

Athos frowned into the darkness, puzzling it all through. The possible motives and payoff eluded him. The only certainty was that he must hold out no matter what. If the cruelty of his present situation was any indication of their captor's state of mind, Athos had no doubt that the next time Aramis came to visit would be even less enjoyable. He would be forced to go to further and further lengths to prove his supposed hatred of Athos, and that could only lead one direction.

Aramis would not want to hurt him. He would be conflicted, but in the end he would surely know that Athos would prefer any punishment to the knowledge that Porthos might suffer the same or worse instead. Athos would, of course, forgive him.

Yes, it was dire indeed, but d'Artagnan was still out there, and Treville would not take the disappearance of three of his men lightly. They would come.

Athos knew they couldn't depend on a swift rescue, though. He closed his eyes against the darkness, taking a deep, bolstering breath. All he could do now was prepare himself as best as he could for what was still to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's catch up with d'Artagnan. He's not just going to sit around if he thinks his friends are in trouble...

**Chapter 4**

"Captain, it's been over an hour since they missed muster. How long do we wait before deciding something's wrong?"

Treville looked up at the young musketeer who had just barged in, raising an eyebrow at the boldness. "D'Artagnan. I thought I told you to get some sleep."

"I'm telling you, something's happened to them! They would be here by now. This is more than just sleeping off a hangover or jumping out of a lady's window-"

"Have I not made it clear that I don't want to know what you lot get up to after hours?"

"-and I can't just sit around and hope everything is alright!" D'Artagnan leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. His dark eyes were full of pleading and worry as he finished, "Captain, you  _have_  to do something!"

Treville narrowed his eyes at the newest soldier under his command, allowing the lack of proper conduct since he knew it was born of loyalty and concern for the other three. "Rest assured, d'Artagnan, I agree. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis may have their vices, but they don't let them interfere with their duty. They should have been back by now. As it happens, I was about to leave when you came in."

D'Artagnan straightened, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh. "Thank you," he murmured. "Where should we begin?"

"We?  _I_  am going to see the Cardinal-"

"Do you think the Red Guard are responsible?"

Treville cast an exasperated glower at the young man's impertinence to interrupt, and shook his head. "If they are, I will find out.  _You_  aren't going anywhere. You've been up all night and most of yesterday. Get some sleep. I'll wake you with any developments."

"No. No, I can't sleep while they're still out there."

"D'Artagnan, you need to rest. That's an order-"

"I'm going to the tavern they visited last night," d'Artagnan decided, already heading for the door. "Maybe someone there noticed something amiss."

He was gone before Treville could get another word in, leaving the captain to stare at the door as it banged shut behind the young musketeer. Treville shook his head and addressed the empty room: "D'Artagnan, go investigate the tavern they were at last night. That's an order. So I don't have to add your rebellion to my list of problems."

Treville hated to admit it, but he was as worried about the three as d'Artagnan, though he couldn't afford to show any chink in his armor. The young Gascon was hot-headed and impetuous, but Treville needed to keep his wits about him to figure this out. He mulled over the situation, striking out for the royal palace as quickly as he could.

With any luck, this would be a simple matter of a quarrel with the rival corps of soldiers, perhaps an argument gone too far that had ended with his three musketeers cooling their heels in the chatelet. If so, the Cardinal would doubtless be eager to let him know, smug in the small victory of his soldiers over Treville's. It would be worth the self-satisfied remarks from Richelieu to have his men returned safely.

The Cardinal was, predictably, in an audience with the King when Treville strode into the palace library to find the two conferring over some new matter of state. They stopped as he drew closer, though the King looked happy to see him.

"Ah, Treville!" Louis exclaimed, grinning at him with all thirty-two teeth. "I didn't know we'd be seeing you today."

Treville offered a swift bow, concern for his men not overriding proper etiquette. "Your Majesty," he greeted his monarch. "Please forgive the intrusion. There is a matter I need to discuss with Cardinal Richelieu."

He kept his eyes glued to the Cardinal, waiting for some hint that Richelieu suspected what this was about. But instead of a triumphant smirk, he saw nothing but impatient confusion.

"Can it wait?" Richelieu demanded. "I was just discussing with His Majesty-"

"I'm afraid it can't," Treville cut him off. "If I may have a word?"

"By all means, Cardinal," Louis invited, still beaming. "If the captain says it's important, it must be so. What is this matter, then, Treville?"

Treville hesitated to speak in front of the King of this, but there wasn't time to waste and it did concern His Majesty, being his personal guard that was missing. Squaring off to Richelieu, Treville demanded, "Three of my men have gone missing since yesterday. The Red Guard wouldn't have any knowledge of that, would they?"

Again, the satisfaction he'd been half expecting and half hoping for wasn't there. If anything, the Cardinal suddenly seemed troubled, his frown deepening as he studied Treville.

The King, however, tutted with amusement.

"Your men finding trouble again, eh, Captain? Three of them, you say… wait, wait, let me guess." Louis counted off on his fingers. "Athos… Porthos… Aramis?"

Treville jerked his head in affirmation, still watching Richelieu with shrewd, suspicious eyes. Either the Cardinal was doing an excellent job of acting or he had known nothing of this.

"Fighting with the Red Guard again?" Louis chuckled. "Why is it always those three?"

"With all due respect, Sire," Treville said, "this may be a serious matter. That they should still be missing is troubling. If I find that any of the Cardinal's men have dared harm-"

"It was not the Red Guard, I can assure you of that," Richelieu retorted. He shifted. "My captain would have informed me of the matter. If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, I should-"

"Weren't you telling me only a few days ago that some of yours had disappeared, Cardinal?" Louis interrupted with blasé cheerfulness. "I say, should I be concerned that my two most trusted advisors can't keep a better watch on their own men?"

Richelieu looked displeased, but Treville growled low in his throat. "Well, Cardinal?"

"Yes," Richelieu bit out. "Two men. They disappeared over a week ago."

Over a week? Treville stared at the Cardinal, shaking his head. "Why was I not informed of this?"

"Why would you be? The Red Guard doesn't concern you."

"Missing soldiers concerns me!" Treville snapped. "We could have helped in the search, made inquiries."

The Cardinal lifted his chin, looking miffed. "We would have had plenty of men to conduct our own investigation, Captain. We would not have required the assistance of-"

"Would have?" Treville repeated. He narrowed his eyes. "You mean you didn't investigate their disappearance?"

Richelieu huffed. "I assumed they had deserted."

"You assumed-" The captain exploded, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Two of your men disappear and you don't even bother to look for them? That's the concern you show your soldiers?"

"Now, gentlemen," Louis spoke up in artificial placation, though he sounded gleeful over the back and forth between the two.

"Do not forget your place, Treville," the Cardinal retorted with icy ire. "I will not have you questioning me regarding my own guard. I have already told you that my men are not responsible for your missing pets, and I'm quite sure that wherever they are, it is of their own doing. Are we finished?"

Treville exhaled in discontent to let the matter die. Richelieu's lack of care for his own soldiers was hardly in keeping with the responsibilities of a leader, but it also wasn't his problem at the moment. The captain's priority had to be his musketeers, and he believed Richelieu when he said the Red Guard were not the ones behind this.

Still, feeling that there was more the Cardinal wasn't saying, Treville glowered at Richelieu as he nodded. "We're finished. For now."

He bowed to the King and made his exit. As Treville was hurrying down the stairs, though, he heard his name called and came to a stop. The Cardinal swept across the floor towards him, expression even more troubled out of the presence of the King.

"What?" Treville asked shortly.

"Your three. Perhaps we don't always see eye to eye, but they are… a valuable asset to the crown," he admitted grudgingly. "That all three might be missing does not bode well. And I would not care to entertain the thought that this may become a pattern of murdered soldiers."

Treville studied him. "No one said anything of murder. What are you not telling me?"

Again, the Cardinal hesitated. "Bertran and Lorens, the two men. They've already been found. Outside my door."

"Dead."

"Both had been strangled, though Lorens was also badly beaten. This was two days after they had disappeared from whatever tawdry tavern they had been at the night prior."

Treville's blood ran cold, shuddering at the thought of finding a similar scene. His best men beaten, murdered, dumped outside the garrison gates… "And still you didn't investigate?" he demanded. "There is no agent you might employ to-"

"My most trusted agent is involved in a different matter, abroad," the Cardinal hissed back, looking around for signs of eavesdroppers. "But now your men have gone missing, days after mine are found dead. Gone without a trace overnight. Possibly a coincidence, but if someone  _is_ targeting soldiers close to the highest offices in France, then I cannot ignore the possibility of a threat to the King himself."

Treville nodded. "I agree. If the disappearances are related, all the more reason to find the ones responsible immediately. D'Artagnan has gone to investigate the tavern my men would have been at. Where were Bertran and Lorens last seen?"

"Surely you don't expect me to know  _every_  coming and going of  _every_  soldier under my command."

Gritting his teeth, Treville snapped, "Then inquire with the captain of the Red Guard.  _If_ the same ones who took your men are responsible for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis's disappearance, we may only have a little time to find them."

Two days. Far too much damage could be inflicted in that span of time. Treville couldn't abide the thought, shoving it from his mind to focus on the next step.

"I will join d'Artagnan, see what he may have discovered," he decided. "Send your captain to the Musketeer garrison once he's determined when and where your men were before they disappeared."

Richelieu bristled at being given orders, but merely jerked his head in a sharp nod and swept off again with a billow of his cloak. Treville continued on down the stairs, mind churning through this development. For the sake of his men, he hoped this was mere coincidence.

When he found his men, the captain decided with fierce determination, he  _would_ find them alive.

.o.O.o.

Porthos watched intently as Aramis stormed back into the hall with Pierre's pistol at his back. His friend was visibly upset, but not with the level of despondency Porthos would have expected if Athos had indeed believed their friendship broken.

"Your payment for the water," Aramis snapped, holding his clenched fist up to the side so that the blood on his knuckles was visible to both Pierre and Porthos.

Porthos's shoulders sagged, angry for Aramis that he'd had to do that. They'd each taken their knocks for the sake of a good act before, though generally not while bound. The marksman would have had a harder time striking a defenseless friend than if it was a staged fight where Athos could get in a lick or two of his own.

"Well done, Aramis," Pierre said as he once again lashed the musketeer to the column. "Though I really think you could have been more convincing than that. Your scorn for him sounded real enough, but the personal attacks were… somewhat lacking. Too restrained, too tame."

Aramis didn't respond to that, merely glowered at their captor's back while Pierre strode towards Porthos.

The musketeer didn't move, refusing to flinch in the face of potential punishment for Aramis's lackluster performance. But Pierre only pulled the cloth free of Porthos's mouth and asked,

"Athos is nobility, it seems. What is his title?"

Porthos frowned, instinctively looking to Aramis, who nodded. "The Comte de la Fere, why?"

"And your captain, Treville. Does he show favoritism among the ranks?"

Ah, so this was a fact-checking quest, probably to make sure Aramis hadn't passed along any hidden messages—which Porthos was sure that he had. Scoffing slightly, he nodded and played along. "Everyone pretends they don' know, but 'e always preferred Athos over th' rest of us at the garrison."

"Very well. You'll still need to do better next time, Aramis. I will instruct you what to say. But for now, we shall give Athos a reprieve."

"Some reprieve," Porthos muttered, wincing at the thought of Athos's discomfort. Not that he was in a great situation himself, but at least up here there was light coming in, and a  _slightly_ better idea of what was happening.

One thing that was  _not_ better was that Pierre was up here as well, and the guy was creeping Porthos out. Dark eyes tracked the man making his way back over to Aramis, once again sitting in front of him and just… staring. Porthos could read Aramis's uneasiness and felt a swell of anger at his inability to do anything to help. The fact that his role was literally to sit here and force Aramis to submit to Pierre's instructions flooded the bigger musketeer with rage.

The one thing he had to offer was a distraction, keeping Pierre's attention on him so at least Aramis could have a moment to re-center himself.

"So here's what I don' get," Porthos spoke up, drawing their captor's eyes. "I ain't ever seen you before. 'Ow d'you know our names an' who we are?"

"I made inquiries," Pierre explained with a shrug.

"Yeah, okay… but somethin' made you ask about us."

Pierre rose, thankfully walking away from Aramis to gaze down at Porthos instead. His expression never changed, emotionless and flat. Not angry, but not… anything.

"There was a small riot in town, earlier this week," he said. "I first saw you there."

Right, Porthos remembered the one he meant; it had been a tense situation, only Athos's commanding presence and his own intimidating bearing keeping the sudden mob from attacking. They were lucky Aramis had survived to tell the tale.

"What, you started that?"

Pierre scoffed. "Hardly. There's nothing at all engaging about a mindless mob. I was merely witness. I heard Athos speak so fiercely in defense of his friend, saw both of you going to his rescue though all logic says you both should have fled. I suspected then that you might have that… certain something… that I find so puzzling."

Porthos snorted. "That somethin' bein' basic human decency not to leave a man behind?"

"There was nothing basic about it, it's a bond that is not found in ordinary men. That is precisely what makes it far more interesting to me. From there, I asked around. You're all quite well known around Paris, you know. Have you any idea what the people have dubbed you?"

"Tall, Dark, and Mysterious?" Aramis chimed in from the other column, offering a cheeky grin. "I'm the tall one."

"You're shorter than me," Porthos reminded him as he bit back a smile to hear his friend sounding more like himself.

"Yes, but I'm not as mysterious."

Pierre ignored the exchange. "They call you the  _Inseparables_. Lofty, to be sure. I believe I'll find you to be quite separable after all. Athos was so intent on protecting his friend Aramis… but what shall he believe when that same friend turns against him? I think he will not be so prepared to risk his own life to defend him after that."

Porthos shook his head, stomach churning with both disgust and unease at what might still be planned. "You don' know Athos if you believe that."

"But I do know people. Humans are base, fear-driven creatures, and in the end, you're no better than any other ordinary human."

"You're wrong." Porthos leaned back against the column, not breaking their locked gaze. "Athos will hold out. An' our captain will come lookin' for us, an' then it'll be too late for you. So if I was you, I'd stop this now an' start runnin'."

Rather than looking intimidated, not that Porthos had really expected it, Pierre only drew his lips up into a crooked smile.

"Somethin' funny?" Porthos asked.

"Oh, no. Just that's the same thing the others said as well. Nobody came for them. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Wait, what others?" Aramis demanded, straightening against the column. "Pierre,  _what others_? Musketeers? Are there more here?"

Fear clawed at Porthos's chest at this sudden revelation, hoping to God above that d'Artagnan hadn't also been taken by this madman. If Pierre had made "inquires" about their little group, he couldn't have failed to hear d'Artagnan's name tossed about as well… And the pup had been on night duty, no one would have marked his absence until morning…

"Don't tell me now you would risk yourself to protect strangers as well."

"Strangers?" Aramis repeated.

"Perhaps not strangers, I have no idea if your paths ever crossed with the Cardinal's men. At any rate, they're gone now. That game played itself out."

Red Guard… Porthos digested the news, trading an askance look with Aramis. He didn't know what to make of this. The fact that Pierre was still alive and free meant that the Cardinal had not retaliated against him, which meant it was doubtful the Red Guard men had survived to name him the culprit.

"An'… how'd that 'game' end?" he couldn't help but ask.

Pierre regarded him for a moment, the eerie lop-sided smile not slipping an inch.

"Exactly as I knew it would. And exactly the way yours will, too."

.o.O.o.

D'Artagnan stormed out of The Blackbird tavern, trying to control himself. It wasn't the innkeeper's fault if he'd been too busy with the nightly crowd to note the specific activities of three men in particular. Had he recognized the descriptions of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?

Yes of course he had, the three were regulars.

Had he seen anyone talking to them?

No, nothing out of the usual, though one of the tavern girls had spent a good deal of time in the corner with the tall one, but she wouldn't be in to work until much later in the evening.

Could he tell d'Artagnan where she lived, as he couldn't wait that long?

No, he couldn't, but d'Artagnan was welcome to come back later.

Had the innkeeper seen the three leave?

No, he hadn't, and did d'Artagnan have many more questions, because he had stock to replenish before the afternoon drunkards started making their way in.

D'Artagnan stood outside The Blackbird, hands on hips, looking around in frustration. No one could have taken the three directly from the tavern itself. If he had the mind to kidnap three able-bodied musketeers, he would wait until they were most vulnerable, no matter how many men he had with him.

"They always walk Athos home," d'Artagnan muttered, looking around again. Athos ended most free nights drunk and stumbling, with Aramis and Porthos taking it in turns to get him back to his apartments so he didn't end up drowning face down in a gutter somewhere. It would be the ideal time to make a move, when whichever escort it was last night had his hands full with Athos.

Turning another circle to regain his bearings, d'Artagnan hurried along the street in the direction he believed Athos's apartments to be in. Sliding deftly around the other people passing by, the musketeer followed the shortest route that the others were likely to have taken, eyes peeled for any sign of something amiss.

There was nothing, though, and by the time d'Artagnan reached the corner where the lodgings stood, he was ready to scream in frustration.

And then, as he spun to storm back towards the garrison, a clue presented itself at last. D'Artagnan froze for only a second before dashing across the street to a man sitting against the stone of a nearby building.

"You there!" he exclaimed, standing over the man as he shrank away. "That hat. Where did you get it?"

"Found it," the man muttered back, hugging his knees in against himself. "It's mine now. Go away."

"It's not yours," d'Artagnan snapped. "It belongs to a musketeer. One who's gone missing. Do you know anything about that?"

"No. I found it. Wasn't no one usin' it, didn't steal it or nothin'."

"Where?" the musketeer pressed urgently.

The old man pointed towards the other side of the street, then mumbled pathetically, "I found it, it's mine."

With a grumble, d'Artagnan pulled out a few coins and pressed them into the man's hand, then yanked Athos's hat off his head and hurried in the direction indicated. Across the street, d'Artagnan cast about anxiously for blood, but there was no trace, nor any sign that the cobblestone had been recently cleaned.

So, likely they hadn't been too badly injured during capture. That was something. If Athos had lost his hat, he'd probably fallen… and if someone had the upper hand over him, either Porthos or Aramis could easily be forced to cooperate.

D'Artagnan looked up, clenching the hat in his fists. If they'd needed further proof that the three had been taken instead of merely off somewhere shirking their duty, it was here.

"Hold on," d'Artagnan murmured. "I'm coming."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW if any of y'all are on Tumblr, feel free to come find me! I'm 29-pieces ^_^

**Chapter 5**

"It's time, Aramis."

The marksman thunked his head back against the column he was bound to, closing his eyes. "It's almost nightfall," he growled. "None of us have had any food since yesterday evening. Let me take Athos something to eat. As well as more water."

"No."

Aramis opened his eyes in disbelief. "Damn you, he won't last long enough to finish your game if you starve him to death!"

"Starvation has a way of bringing out the true nature of humanity," Pierre replied with an uncaring shrug. "Raw survival. I wager between the hunger and your betrayal, he'll give in. If you're so concerned about him getting some food, consider this: the sooner you convince Athos to turn on you in return, the sooner this will end."

"Like it ended for th' Red Guard?" Porthos muttered.

Pierre turned his way with a raised brow. "Precisely."

"Let 'em walk right out of here, did ya?"

"I returned them to Richelieu, just as I said I would. Finish the game, and I shall return you to your captain."

Aramis snorted but didn't remark on his doubt that they would be alive when they were 'returned'. "He'll find us before you ever have the chance."

"I rather doubt it." Pierre advanced on Aramis, squatting in front of him. "Are you prepared for the next level of the game?"

Hunger was already gnawing at Aramis's stomach; he couldn't imagine how miserable Porthos must be, given the number of missed meals so far. The big musketeer hadn't complained about it, probably knowing that as bad as they had it, Athos would be even worse off. The idea of adding to the swordsman's misery filled Aramis with loathing.

"And what precisely would the 'next level' entail?" he asked.

"You will tell Athos how much you despise him, as before, but this time you must not be so… delicate about it."

"Delicate?"

"Athos must believe that you truly hate him. I heard a good many people speak on his struggles against the bottle… tell him how sick you are of cleaning up after him, of having to care for him every night he's drunk."

Aramis glowered, taking deep breaths. "I would hardly call it a struggle. He doesn't care any more than we do about his drinking, and he knows we don't-"

"You will change his mind. Athos will believe he disgusts you.  _Convince_   _him_. Whatever it takes."

"Don't do it, Aramis," Porthos snapped, baleful glare fixed on Pierre.

"Do not antagonize me, Porthos," Pierre said evenly, getting to his feet. Instead of moving towards the other musketeer, though, the madman crossed the hall to a small table, picking something up. "You will take this in with you. To use. On him."

Aramis's heart stopped.

"I refuse," he snarled.

Pierre eyed Aramis with the same small smile. "I'll be watching, as before. If you try and pull your swings, if you don't strike hard enough to leave marks, I'll know. You're a musketeer, Aramis. I know what you're capable of. I will accept nothing less."

"I said, I'm not doing it!"

"We both know you will. Hurt one friend or see the other die before your eyes… is this truly a difficult choice?"

"Aramis-" Porthos started with a note of warning, but Pierre held up his hand.

"I can see that even if you obey the rules of this round, your heart won't truly be in it. Allow me to provide some additional motivation."

Aramis felt his pulse start to race, already shaking his head as Pierre strode calmly over to Porthos—the bigger musketeer growled and struggled harder against the ropes binding him.

"That won't be necessary," Aramis pleaded. "Pierre…"

"You are the medic of your merry band, are you not?"

"I don't understand-"

"You are the one they call upon to put them back together when they've been wounded. So, Aramis…"

Pierre drew his dagger and swiftly knelt over Porthos. Metal glinted with a flash of silver as the dagger drove a vicious gash through the bound musketeer's thigh. Porthos choked out an agonized shout, instinctively trying to jerk away.

"No!" Aramis shouted, though it was too late. He could only watch in horror as Pierre yanked the dagger back out, flinging drops of blood across the floor. There was no spray of red from Porthos's leg, so Pierre must not have hit the most important blood vessels, but a pool of dark blood was already blossoming out from the wound.

"I think he has some time yet before bleeding out, if the wound is not tended," Pierre assured him calmly, staring down at Porthos. The bigger musketeer was clearly trying to will himself not to make any more sound, jaw clenched so tightly that Aramis was sure he was about to crack teeth.

But though Porthos didn't cry out in pain, he visibly shuddered against his bonds.

"You bastard," Aramis whispered, yanking at the ropes holding him.

"So now, Aramis, we understand each other. Be convincing, not just to Athos… convince  _me_  that you truly hate the man, beat him like you would a mortal enemy, and I shall allow you to dress Porthos's wound before he bleeds to death." Pierre turned to Aramis, eyes glinting as the last tinges of sunlight disappeared from the hall. "But as you can see, time is running out."

Cursing Pierre, cursing himself, Aramis gritted his teeth. "Alright," he choked out. Athos could take a beating, had done so before. He was a musketeer. He- he would understand. "But let me take Athos some water-"

"The time for bargaining is past. Now, you will follow my instructions to the letter. Here is what I wish for you to do…"

.o.O.o.

"The musketeer? Course I remember 'im. Him an' his lot are in here all the time." The woman gave d'Artagnan a once over and a coy smile. "Ain't you the lad sometimes with 'em, too, yeah?"

"But you  _definitely_ saw them here last night?" d'Artagnan pressed, forcing himself to keep his impatience in check.

With no solid leads to follow, Captain Treville had insisted d'Artagnan get some sleep, but he'd managed no more than a few nods. Now that it was late enough for the women plying their trade at the local taverns to be hanging around, d'Artagnan didn't plan to close his eyes again until he'd spoken with every woman in all of Paris who might have seen his friends.

The woman tossed her hair back, reaching out to brush d'Artagnan's cheek. "Aye," she agreed. "They was here. So tense, lad, I could help wiv 'at."

D'Artagnan took her wrist to push her arm down, shaking his head. "I don't have time," he snapped, before gritting his teeth and saying more calmly, "Listen, they might be in trouble. You may have been the last one to see them… I need to know everything."

"Trouble?" the woman asked, her face falling. Green eyes darted around the tavern, then back to the musketeer as she leaned in closer. "Aramis ain't hurt?"

"I don't know. I don't know where he is or what's happened. Him, or Athos, or Porthos."

"Athos, the quiet, moody one? An' Porthos was the cheery feller playin' cards."

"That's them," d'Artagnan confirmed, squeezing her wrist anxiously. "But they never came home. Did anything happen while they were here?"

The woman's face grew more troubled and she pulled away to slowly sink into one of the nearby seats.

"No…"

The sudden change in demeanor left d'Artagnan narrowing his eyes at the woman.

"Are you sure about that? Because I'm starting to think something  _did_ happen, and you know about it. And if I find out that somebody hurt them and that  _you_ were involved-"

"No, I swear to you!" the woman cried out, eyes widening in horror. "Aramis an' Porthos 'ave always been kind to me. An' Athos, I s'pose, mainly keeps to 'imself, but I can tell he's a good man. I can always tell those kinds o' things. I wouldn't do nothin' to harm any of them, I swear."

"But there's  _something_ you know," d'Artagnan pressed.

The woman closed her eyes and swallowed. "Nothin' happened here last night, I promise you that. I was chattin' with Aramis—'e never takes me up on any offers, but he's always good for a flirt an' a smile—right over there." She pointed towards a corner of the tavern, currently occupied by a boisterous group of drunks. "Porthos left first. Aramis didn' take Athos out 'til later."

"They weren't together," d'Artagnan repeated, frowning over the news. So it had been Aramis in the alley where Athos had been ambushed. But then how had they been able to take Porthos as well? "How long after Porthos left were the other two here?"

"Oh, a good while."

Enough time to dispose of one musketeer, then prepare a trap for the remaining two. Or perhaps Porthos had been the bait, brought along as a hostage to the apartments as a means of controlling Athos and Aramis. Either way, whatever had happened must surely have started after Porthos left but while the others were still at the tavern.

D'Artagnan's frown deepened. "I know there must have been a lot of people here," he said. "But do you remember seeing  _anyone_ follow Porthos out? Please,  _think_."

The woman wrung her hands and looked away. Something tightened in d'Artagnan's gut.

"You did see something," he growled.

"I didn' think nothin' of it," she cried out, turning back to him at last. "Leastaways not 'til you came in here, sayin' they was missin'. An' by the time Aramis left wiv Athos, 'e was already long gone!"

" _Who_?"

"I don' know his name, he's only been comin' in here about a week or more."

"And what makes you suspect he had something to do with this? Was there an argument?"

The woman shook her head. "No… nothin' like that. Only…"

D'Artagnan's patience snapped, and he slammed both hands down on the table in front of the woman, making her jump with a squeak of fright. "Only  _what_?" he shouted, ignoring the hush his outburst brought to the immediate vicinity.

Looking around, the woman leaned in closer, lowering her own voice in contrast to d'Artagnan's anger. "He'd asked about 'em. Several days ago now. Nothin' bad," she quickly added, perhaps seeing the shadow building on the musketeer's face. "Nothin' that shouldn' be known. Just… who they were, 'ow they got along, whether they were often in 'ere. Said e'd seen 'em talk down a few rioters an' was curious. Wouldn' be the first, those musketeers 'ave a way of makin' themselves known."

"And what did you tell him?" d'Artagnan snapped. His mind raced; someone asking questions about the musketeers only a few days before they had vanished? Seen at the same establishment that they had last been to… it  _could_ still be coincidence. She was probably right that questions arose now and then about the three, but d'Artagnan didn't like this.

The woman seemed on the verge of tears now. "Not much, I swear," she half-sobbed. "An' nothin' personal. Don't know much about 'em myself to tell, but I did say they was in here a lot of nights. Guess I felt… I dunno, safer, wiv 'im knowing they might be in before long, an' not to try nothin'."

"So he was threatening."

She slumped. "Jus' the opposite. He was real friendly, you know? Just actin' curious. Only… there was somethin'…" The woman bit her lip, eyes growing distant. "Look, monsieur, in my line of work, you gotta be able to tell th' bad ones from the  _real_ bad ones. You know? I told you, I can tell things like that. Wasn't nothin' he said or did, there was just somethin'  _not right_. He gave me bad feelin's, so I didn' stay an' chat. That's how I know he was here last night, marked 'im when he came in, an' how I know he left right before Porthos, because I breathed a sigh o' relief."

"But he never spoke to them?"

The woman shook her head. "Didn't speak to 'em, didn't approach 'em. Just sat in 'is corner an' drank." She paused. Then: "The night after he was in here askin' questions, I told all the other girls to watch out for 'im, just to be safe. But seems he'd already talked to them an' half of Paris about the musketeers."

This seemed less and less like a mere coincidence. D'Artagnan nodded, automatically glancing around the tavern. "Is he here now? Can you describe him?"

"No, he ain't here. Dark hair, dark eyes, little scar on 'is cheek, looks sorta like a cross. Talked fancy, too. Like Athos before 'e starts drinkin'."

So likely educated, if not nobility. That could help narrow down a suspect list—if only he had one. "Alright. Listen, do you know where the musketeer garrison is?"

She nodded.

"Good. If he comes back in here tonight, get there straight away, understand? Ask for the captain or me, my name's d'Artagnan. Can you do that?"

Again, the woman nodded. D'Artagnan had started to turn away when she called out after him.

"D'Artagnan… if I'd known… I never dreamed 'e might want to do 'em any harm."

"Pray that he hasn't," the musketeer muttered, storming for the door. True, there was no proof that this man had anything to do with the disappearances, but d'Artagnan wasn't about to let this lead go unfollowed.

.o.O.o.

Not even prisoners in the chatelet were treated like this.

Athos kept his eyes closed against the overwhelming darkness hemming him in like an additional restraint, a net holding him down. His arms were numb by now from being held in the same position for so long, outstretched to either side with little room to maneuver. The ropes, coarse around his wrists, had probably already left abrasions, though the one blessing of being so numb was that he couldn't feel the pain.

Though his legs weren't bound, the ability to stretch and bend them as needed was little comfort. Honestly, Athos would have preferred the additional rope to be wrapped around his feet rather than his neck. Every time he tried to swallow, the hemp rubbed his parched throat so that he felt like he was being scraped over a grate inside and out.

Athos couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thirsty, nor so hungry. How many days had it been now? Had he been abandoned to slowly starve to death?

His heart stuttered; what would that imply of Porthos and Aramis's fate?

Athos took several deep, bracing breaths, wrestling back the despair that threatened to well up from the darkest corners of his mind. He would happily relinquish the remainder of his inheritance at the moment in exchange for a sliver of light, a few drops of water, and a crust of bread.

He needed to find a way to free himself, but the swordsman had already exhausted his list of potential resources. With his hands bound as they were, there was nothing in reach to saw through the rope. The light from Aramis's torch—how long ago had that been now?—had revealed nothing else in the cellar with him that he might use. Weakened by hunger and exhaustion, the thought of simply breaking through the restraints was unattainable.

Much as Athos loathed the idea of admitting defeat, he was truly helpless at the moment.

Somewhere in the distance but getting closer, the sound of boots on stone made Athos jerk upright again, opening his eyes to the inky blackness. He held his breath, listening with all his might to assure himself that it was Aramis's sauntering stride. Though he would have been as happy to hear the quick patter of d'Artagnan's steps or the measured treads of his captain.

No, that was certainly Aramis. If nothing else, then, that meant the marksman was still alive, and that was cause for relief in spite of whatever might happen next.

Athos swallowed again against the rope threaded around his throat and tried to brace himself. His first priority must be Aramis and Porthos. If protecting them meant enduring pain, even torture, he must be prepared for it.

And he must ensure that Aramis knew he was prepared.

The door hinges screeched as it was thrust inward. Though Athos had just been desperately wishing for light, he now had to turn his head with eyes closed against the flame of the torch, far too bright though it was barely enough to reveal the one who carried it. The musketeer tried to squint up at Aramis, but even that hurt.

Aramis seemed to realize that it was too bright, because the flame was pulled back. Athos blinked his eyes open painfully. Once again, there was no light from the other side of the door, but he hadn't heard Aramis close it. His skin crawled at the knowledge they were probably being observed by someone he couldn't see.

"Ar'mis," he managed to croak out. "Wa-ter…" The musketeer didn't even care what a wretched sight he must look, pitifully begging for anything to quench his awful thirst.

The flame returned to his face, also illuminating Aramis's. The anguish there stole Athos's breath.

But in the next instant, the image was lost, Aramis tipping his head down and tilting the torch away so that his face was cast into shadow once more.

"Always thinking about something to  _drink_ ," he spat out with the same harsh vitriol that sounded nothing like him. "How typical."

So… no water. Athos inwardly sighed, but supposed he shouldn't have been counting on it. He wanted to ask Aramis about Porthos, about how long they had been captives, whether it was now night or day, but of course he could ask no such things with a spectator so near.

"Aramis," he tried again, voice a little stronger though his dry mouth still struggled to form the words. "This isn't you."

The marksman dropped the torch onto the stone floor by Athos's feet. "Oh, I think you'll find it is. You do remember, do you not, what I told you this morning about the price of failure?"

Athos exhaled as the double message registered. Silently, he thanked Aramis for orienting him to the fact that it hadn't even been a full day yet since he'd last been in; if that had been morning, this was surely evening or nightfall, likely the first since their capture.

Just as quickly, Athos realized with regret that though Treville and d'Artagnan would be looking for them, they couldn't be expected to put all the pieces together so quickly. There was no rescue likely in their immediate future, so Athos would have to bear this as best as he could.

But it was the remainder of the message that his full attention turned to, the reminder of their earlier conversation: failure meant Porthos would be hurt. Aramis had no choice in what he was about to do, in order to save their other brother.

Athos inclined his head in affirmation. "This is not how you punish failure," he insisted. "Not you, Aramis. Lesser men, perhaps, but never you. I know this isn't your doing. And before you ask it again, no… I do not hate you. Whatever has happened, whatever reason you have for this, know that I place no blame on  _you_." He lifted his chin. "You're my brother, Aramis. And there is nothing I would not give or sacrifice for any brother of mine."

And with that, Aramis would surely know he had Athos's blessing, and his forgiveness.

Athos did not waver.

Not even when Aramis raised his arm, thrusting something under Athos's chin to tip his head back.

"There's only one problem," Aramis hissed. "You're no brother to me."

In the light of the flickering torch on the floor, Athos registered what else Aramis had brought in.

The riding crop disappeared from beneath his chin as Aramis smacked it threateningly into his palm.

Just once.  _No,_ one tap meant; Athos wasn't to believe anything Aramis had surely been instructed to say in an attempt to break Athos's spirit.

"And I will prove it to you," Aramis continued, lunging forward to yank the gag still around Athos's neck up and back into his mouth. "Even if it's the last thing I do."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, but it's not extreme or gory, just difficult for the ones on both the giving and receiving end.

As much as Athos was not looking forward to what was about to happen to him, a small part of his mind couldn't help thinking that at least it could be worse: it might have been a blade or a whip, leaving him with open wounds that would attract infection. He eyed the crop that was back under his chin once more. The choice of weapon made sense. Brutal, personal, able to shatter bone and leave abundant visible evidence of the beating to anyone who might be watching.

This was going to be extremely unpleasant.

And yet Aramis hadn't moved, continuing to press the crop up under Athos's chin, clearly torn. The musketeer didn't dare try to signal his friend to go ahead, which would certainly arouse suspicion. Instead, he growled into the gag and yanked against the ropes that held him fast to the grate, hoping to urge Aramis to push back.

It seemed to work, as Aramis lowered the tensile rod and lashed out with his free hand to grip a chunk of Athos's hair instead.

"I've waited a long time for this," he snarled. "You have no idea how hard it was to play along for all these years, cleaning up your messes, listening to Treville praise a man who's nothing but a despicable,  _pathetic_  drunkard."

It was all Athos could do not to roll his eyes. Yes, he was very much a drunkard, the others had known this before their friendship had grown so close; was he supposed to be bothered by the remark?

On the other hand, perhaps they wouldn't be in this mess now if he'd been sober enough the night before to help fight…

Athos grunted in pain as his head was slammed back against the grate, hard enough to audibly thud and leave him with starbursts in his vision. He barely felt the fingers clawing at the ropes securing his wrists to the metal.

"I  _hate_ you," Aramis's voice spat in his ear. "I should have let you die in a gutter where you belong."

His hands were untied now and Athos knew he had to make a show of trying to fight back, though as exhausted as he was, the pitiful struggles were his best effort anyway.

"Hold still!" Aramis barked, clouting him across the face.

Slumping as though stunned, breathing raggedly through his nose, Athos allowed Aramis to draw his hands together in front of him and retie them. Aramis disappeared for only a moment, then the rope around his neck was pulled loose. This was then looped through the rope about his wrists.

"Get up," Aramis ordered coldly with a harsh kick. "I said,  _get_   _up_!"

The length of rope had been passed through the grate high overhead and then yanked down to lever his arms upwards; without it, Athos wasn't sure he would have been physically able to stand. He gasped in pain as his stiff limbs were shoved and jerked around, but soon he was on his feet. The rope was tied off to secure him there, hands trapped above his head.

Despite himself, Athos couldn't help but swallow hard in dismay. He couldn't curl in to protect his ribcage, bound thus. Still trying to put on a show of fighting back, the musketeer grunted and lifted a foot as though to kick Aramis away from him. As expected, the marksman slammed the crop down on Athos's leg.

"You're  _nothing_ ," Aramis hissed as Athos held back any sound of pain. "You're nothing but the captain's dog, and I'm going to whip you like one."

 _Then DO it already_ , Athos wanted to shout, wanting nothing but to get this over with. His muffled exclamation seemed to be enough for Aramis to understand, for the musketeer stepped back and raised the crop.

"Turn around, Athos," he commanded through gritted teeth. When Athos didn't move, he lashed out with his free fist, striking the bound musketeer in the gut and driving the wind from his lungs. "I said,  _turn around_!"

Athos wheezed for air as he was grabbed and forced around to face the grate he was tied to. It was better this way. Hard as it was to turn his back to an attacker—even when it was his friend—at least his ribs would be spared. And Aramis also couldn't see any of the pain that Athos wouldn't be able to keep from his face. That was a mercy he was only too happy to extend.

Tensing instinctively, Athos jumped when he felt the crop prod against his shoulder blades through his shirt.

"You deserve this."

It was the only warning he received before the rod landed with punishing force across his back. Athos bit down hard on the rag in his mouth, now doubly grateful that Aramis had given him something to bear down on as well as muffle any sounds he'd be tempted to make.

"You  _sicken_ me, Athos!"

Another blow, low on his spine. Athos leaned his forehead against the cold metal in front of him, praying the attack wouldn't take long. He drew in another ragged breath. He could endure this.

"Poor Athos, poor  _Comte_ , life is too hard for the treasured pet of the garrison-"

A strike across his shoulders, making him stagger.

"-so you get to drink yourself to oblivion every night, too cowardly to face your own problems-"

A blow hard enough that Athos felt the cold air on the sudden strip of dampness down his back.

"-and you know, Athos," Aramis paused with the rod, reaching forward to grab the back of Athos's head again and jerk him slightly away from the grate. "I would be happy if you did drink yourself to death. But taking  _us_ down with you? No, I'm done with you."

He thrust Athos back into the grate, the crop swinging so fiercely that the whistle of wind was audible in the stone chamber. This time, Athos couldn't bite back the muffled cry no matter how hard he tried, shoulders heaving with the effort.

"You think you're so well loved-" Aramis's voice broke and Athos had to kick back weakly to goad him into continuing before their captor realized neither of them believed a word of this. It earned him another strike as Aramis shouted, stronger, "-but the truth is you're the laughingstock of the garrison! All of the men talk behind your back of your  _weakness_! They say when Porthos or I are finally killed, it'll be because  _you_ were too drunk to stop it!"

Several more blows in swift succession, and now Athos finally lost his footing, collapsing so that he was held by nothing but the rope around his wrists. He shuddered, holding in an agonized moan on sheer will power alone, but the next strike of the rod left another stripe of damp blood and he couldn't choke off the cry.

"And they'll be right," Aramis sneered. "And I really-"  _strike_ "-really-"  _strike_  "-hate you for it."

Athos hung from the grate, body trembling of its own accord from both pain and anxious anticipation of the next blow. How much of this was Aramis expected to carry out? Had there been a specific counting, or was he waiting for some other signal?

Aramis pressed in close again, once more jerking Athos's head back. The swordsman groaned in pain, eyelids fluttering as he scrambled to find his feet. Aramis exhaled sharply.

"Not out yet?" he demanded, tapping Athos twice. "That's alright, I have all day." One more tap.

So he was supposed to beat Athos unconscious and only then was he allowed to stop. Athos shuddered; he wasn't far from it. His body was a mass of agony from the brutal attack. Fire consumed his limbs with every inch of movement as Athos weakly tried to shoulder Aramis back. Aramis shoved him, but it was a gentle push accompanied by the knocking of the rod against the grate to make it sound harder than it was.

Taking his cue, Athos collapsed fully into his bonds once more, letting the rope bear his weight even though his arms and shoulders screamed. Aramis stepped away, perhaps to let their viewer see for himself that Athos had passed out. Then, he felt Aramis move closer, pulling him up over his shoulder enough to release the tension on the ropes so he could undo the knot keeping the musketeer suspended.

Free of the grate, Athos collapsed bonelessly to the ground and stoically rode out another crashing wave of pure agony, very nearly slipping into the darkness for real. A boot shoved him onto his back and Athos wanted to sob. He held still though, eyes closed as the light and heat of a torch drew near his face.

"There, he's out, as you requested," Aramis hissed to someone else in the darkness, the hatred in his voice suddenly sincere. "Now let me tend to Porthos, damn you!"

"Wake him," another voice echoed softly from farther away; Athos struggled not to flinch in dismay. He didn't know how much more he could take.

"You  _bastard_. You said I only had to-"

"This round of the game does not end until he has answered the question. Wake him. If he has not begun to doubt at least a little, I shall assume you weren't convincing enough, and perhaps we will begin again."

Athos wasn't sure he would survive another round without time to recover. Besides which, it sounded as though Porthos needed to be seen to, which explained the touch of desperation he'd sensed in Aramis's swings. He would have to give the madman what he wanted, at least a little.

He waited until Aramis's hand connected lightly with his cheek, though Athos wrenched his head to the side to make it seem like a harder slap. He groaned and slowly blinked his eyes open as the gag was yanked out of his mouth.

"Still in there?" Aramis snapped, gripping the back of Athos's neck. His hand was trembling.

"Aramis, please," Athos whispered. "I don't… understand. Why are you- why are you doing this?"

"Because I-" Once again, Aramis's voice broke in the darkness. He quickly got ahold of himself, though, spitting out, "because I want to see you suffer. Because I hate you. Because I always have." The hand on Athos's neck squeezed once: a lie _._  "And you,  _brother_ ," he said the word like a taunt. "Do you not hate me in return?"

Remembering that he had to appear as though he was starting to doubt, Athos hesitated. He reached his bound hands up to take Aramis's arm.

"Someone… someone else is behind this… aren't they?" he choked out, trying to sound unsure while at the same time pressing twice against Aramis's doublet so he would know Athos knew it to be true. "You couldn't do this… you…"

"It's a yes or no question," Aramis snapped. "Do you hate me, as I hate you?"

"I… no, but… Aramis, please, just stop this. I- I will never hate you."

The marksman wrenched away and stood, though Athos couldn't find the strength to follow his movement. A light tug on his bound hands told him Aramis had refastened the rope, lower down so that he was still tied to the grate but would be allowed to stay on the ground.

Not another word was spoken, Aramis's boots retreating once more. The light of the torch disappeared, but Athos had already given in to the darkness.

.o.O.o.

"The Goose and Crown is nowhere near The Blackbird," Treville thought out loud, sitting behind his desk with his chin resting on clasped hands. "If your men disappeared from there, then whoever is responsible has a hunting ground that covers half of Paris. It makes no sense."

"Unless the disappearances have nothing to do with each other." Captain Blanchet leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The captain of the Red Guard didn't seem unsympathetic, nor was he refusing to help; he simply didn't have anything of use to share.

"Very strange coincidence, don't you think?" Treville returned. "My soldiers going missing only days after yours?"

"From two different sides of Paris, as you pointed out. From two different regiments. And you said your boy discovered someone had been asking questions about Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Sounds like it was personal. Knowing them, are you that surprised?"

Treville didn't rise to the jab, merely glowered at the rival captain. "Someone left your men slaughtered on the Cardinal's doorstep. That doesn't sound personal to you?"

Blanchet had no good response to that, looking away with a shadowed face. Bickering would get them nowhere, so Treville let the matter drop.

"Let's assume for a moment that both sets of men were specifically targeted," he said. "If we knew how and why they caught the attention of whoever is behind this, perhaps it would reveal something important. The short span between the guards' deaths and the musketeers' disappearance says whoever took them doesn't take long to act, so anything your men did in the last few days of their lives might have been the crucial event. Had they been on any special assignment?"

With a sigh, Blanchet trudged towards Treville's desk and sat in front of it. Treville could see lines in the captain's face that he recognized from his own image in the mirror.

"No. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact they were put on work detail after an incident the week prior."

"An incident? What incident?"

Blanchet scowled. "I sent Bertran and Lorens to attend a funeral mass for a man whose estate had given generously to the church in the past. Naturally, the Cardinal was too busy to attend himself but wanted to be represented. To show that families who fill his coffers are honored."

Treville bit his tongue, nodding for Blanchet to continue.

"Bertran and Lorens were new recruits with no experience, but I thought even they should be able to handle attending a funeral service without much trouble. Instead, they almost started a fight with one of the guests."

"Did they say what the dispute was about?"

"Aye, seems when they were outside, another guest lost control of his horse. Nearly trampled Bertran, to hear Lorens tell it. Lorens knocked him aside in time and grabbed the reins, then gave the rider a piece of his mind. Nearly came to blows. I know how Lorens's temper is- well… was. I'm sure his actions were an embarrassment to the regiment, and to the Cardinal."

"Sounds like he saved a fellow soldier's life." Treville could see any of his Inseparables doing the same for the others.

With a huff, Blanchet grumbled, "That's not the part I take issue with, Treville. Lorens almost started a brawl, at a  _funeral_ no less. The man he practically assaulted came to me later that day demanding they both be disciplined. Bertran wasn't as temperamental, but he was defensive of Lorens. The other guests had to pull all three of them apart."

"So they were close friends."

Blanchet nodded. "The closest. Enlisted together. From what I understand, they grew up practically brothers."

Practically brothers, rising to the other's defense, landing themselves in trouble due to hot-headed protection of the other… Treville's frown deepened. Now who did  _that_ remind him of? Of course, soldiers often formed tight bonds as such. Likely a coincidence.

A thought to keep filed away, though.

"The man they nearly fought with," he said instead. "Was he questioned following the disappearances? Could it be possible he felt further punishment was warranted?" Immediately, the musketeer captain slammed a frustrated hand down onto the desk and leaned back. "No, of course he wasn't questioned. I forgot that you didn't deem two missing men worthy of an investigation."

At least Blanchet, unlike the Cardinal, had the decency to turn his head with an abashed expression. "I was considering throwing them out of the regiment altogether, which I made very clear. Hence my assumption they left of their own accords. I wrote dismissal letters for both to spare them the desertion charges, but I admit, perhaps it would have been prudent-"

"Prudent? You were responsible for them! No matter how much trouble they may have brought you, to simply turn your back on them is unfathomable! You're their  _captain_!"

"I don't need a lecture from you! Do you believe I haven't thought it enough times since they were found?"

Good. He  _ought_ to feel guilty. Treville shot the man another unimpressed glare, but again there were more important concerns now. "Who was the man they fought? He has more motive so far than anyone else."

"Gilbert Fouquet."

"The Vicomte of Doisneau? They almost fought a  _vicomte_?"

"Aye. Hence the work detail."

Treville sat back, thinking hard. He wasn't opposed to breaking down a nobleman's door and demanding answers if he thought it would get his men back safely. But he had seen Gilbert Fouquet at court… the man's hair was shocking white despite his age, eyes almost pink against pale skin. Not the man d'Artagnan had described as the one asking questions about the musketeers.

Perhaps the vicomte had merely hired someone else to take retribution, although that wasn't the type of work usually taken on by a man who "talked fancy" like a noble. Besides, none of his three had ever run afoul of the vicomte that he knew of, or crossed his path at all.

At the very least, he didn't have nearly enough cause to go knocking on the vicomte's door at this hour, so any further questions on that front would have to wait.

…Probably best to not mention the name to d'Artagnan until morning.

Meanwhile, Treville wasn't satisfied with the answers he'd gotten. It nagged at him, the similarities between the two groups of soldiers who'd been taken; hadn't his three recently been involved in a near riot? Was it possible the fighting had caught someone's attention in both cases? But why?

"Just one more question," Treville said. "The funeral they attended… whose was it?"

"Lord Phillipe Bocuse."

No one Treville knew. The title of 'lord' didn't necessarily mean nobility, and it wasn't anyone he recognized from court. Disheartened, he showed Captain Blanchet to the door, thanking him for his assistance.

"Captain," Blanchet said, turning back with a frown. "We may be rivals in name, but we are both soldiers. My men did not deserve what happened to them. Neither do yours, as much trouble as they have caused in the past. I pray for their sake they were not taken by the same ones responsible for Lorens and Bertran's death, but if they were, and if you should find the ones who did this…"

"I will let you know."

Blanchet nodded his thanks, then turned and left. Treville closed the door behind him, musing over everything he'd learned, and everything he hadn't. It seemed they only had more questions, and precious few suspects. D'Artagnan was out canvasing the area with another patrol, but Treville had hoped for better ideas to offer when they returned.

Perhaps if the Cardinal had been familiar with the Bocuse family, he would have some insight to offer. Treville vowed to find Richelieu at first light.

But for now, he could only pray his Inseparables made it through the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Porthos closed his eyes against the shafts of morning light starting to filter in through the window. His leg still felt like it was on fire from Pierre's dagger. Aramis had been able to stop the bleeding, though the tourniquet and bandages were only a stopgap. Much as the musketeer hated it, he knew it would probably require needlework when they got back to safety.

Assuming they didn't all die here, first.

Porthos recalled Aramis's face the night before when he'd emerged from the cellar dungeon, riding crop glinting with Athos's blood. If it was the last thing he did, Porthos swore that he would see Pierre dead. Aramis had intimated that Athos was still alive, but hadn't spoken much beyond that. Porthos hadn't seen his friend in such a dark place since Savoy.

And he was still sitting there uselessly, the only reason Aramis was being compelled to go through with any of this. If Porthos wasn't so busy being furious with Pierre and Jean, he'd be more angry with himself. But that wouldn't serve him right now.

Cracking his eyes just enough to see the outline of Jean still seated nearby in a silent vigil, Porthos continued to work at the ropes holding his hands behind the column. While Aramis had been granted a little movement during his visits to Athos, Porthos had been kept exactly where he was, bound and immobile for over a day now. It was a pain.

But it also meant no one had occasion yet to check his bonds were still in place.

The pair of madmen might have taken his weapons and pauldron away from him, but they'd left the leather jerkin in place. The metal stud Porthos had managed to work loose from the edge of it was small, but he'd learned a long time ago to be as resourceful as possible with practically nothing. It had taken most of the previous day to get the stud free and in a workable position and all night long to cut through the thick rope fibers.

As he felt the last of it give way, Porthos exhaled a long, silent breath. Finally.

He opened his eyes the rest of the way, quickly surveying the hall for any sign of Pierre, but their "host" hadn't emerged for the morning. Only Jean sat guard, close by with a pistol in his hand, and Aramis tied to his own column with hooded eyes fixed on the floor. Porthos would have liked to prepare his friend for what was about to happen, but Aramis seemed in another world and he couldn't afford to attract Jean's attention.

Moving slowly, silently, Porthos stretched his legs out in front of him and then pulled them in once again, testing their mobility and wincing as fire poured down his limb from the wound. He wouldn't be able to put much weight on it without collapsing. But he only needed to get far enough. His arms felt a little better, as Porthos had tried to keep flexing and relaxing them overnight to keep the blood flowing, so he was as ready to move as he would ever be.

Checking to make sure Jean wasn't looking his way, Porthos gripped the column and used it to lever himself up to his good leg, then launched himself at their guard.

Jean had no time to raise the pistol as the musketeer slammed into him. The gun went flying; unfortunate, but Porthos was just as happy to kill the man with his bare hands. There was a swift, silent scrabble as Jean tried to wrestle away, but even wounded, Porthos outmatched the smaller man. Soon Jean was trapped in his grip, Porthos holding him firmly from behind with one arm pinning the man's hands and the other wrapped around his throat.

"Not a sound outta you," he hissed in Jean's ear, squeezing harder to make sure the threat was clear. "You're gonna untie my friend over there, then we're gonna go downstairs and find Athos, got it? You try an' call for your pal, you're dead."

Jean released a garbled noise, not a loud call, just a strange sound that made Porthos pause. Well, no wonder Jean hadn't said a word since their capture. He wondered if Pierre had cut the man's tongue out himself, or if it had been some  _other_ lunatic. At least he'd be quiet, then. Porthos shoved, forcing Jean forward a step while simultaneously using him as a prop to help himself limp along.

"Porthos!" Aramis's eyes widened in warning as he struggled to his feet, making Porthos whirl around with Jean in tow.

Pierre was smiling, which was far worse than his usual empty expression. "Leaving so soon, Porthos? Where are your manners? You can't leave until the game is finished."

"Trust me, it's finished," Porthos snapped, shifting his grip on Jean so that he was prepared to twist the man's head right off his shoulders. "Let us go, or I'll snap his neck!"

Pierre's smile never wavered, watching him with the eyes of a predator as he prowled in a wide arc towards Aramis and the fallen pistol. Porthos twitched his hands threateningly.

"I mean it!"

"I'm sure you do. Though I wonder what your plans are once you've killed my man. Wouldn't that leave you without any leverage?" He leaned over and plucked the gun up off the floor.

Porthos's heart pounded. This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. "I'm takin' Aramis an' Athos outta here, an' you're gonna let us walk out. Unless you want your man to-"

The crack of the pistol echoed in the broad chamber, making Porthos lurch instinctively. He nearly tumbled to the floor, not because he was hit, but because his prop suddenly collapsed. Porthos grunted in dismay and released Jean, who fell to the ground and stared up at him with sightless eyes. Blood trickled from the hole in his skull, still smoking gently from the shot.

"You..."

"Now we have a problem," Pierre said calmly, as though he hadn't just killed his own man. He continued to circle, as Porthos painfully twisted on his one good leg to follow him. His pulse quickened to see the madman closing in on Aramis, still bound to the column and unable to fight back.

"Stay away from him or I'll-"

"You'll what, Porthos? You have no hostage, you have no weapon. You can't get to him before I can, not on that leg. It was a commendable effort, but you have no hand to play, and I daresay no more cards hidden up your sleeve."

Porthos swallowed, hating to admit that the man was right. His eyes flicked to Aramis in panic, but his friend merely returned his gaze with resignation and sorrow. They'd only had one chance at this, and he'd failed. "I'll kill you," he warned, but it was painfully obvious he was bluffing. Pierre's smile widened.

"Hmm. I don't think you will." He'd reached Aramis at last, sliding in beside the trapped musketeer and drawing his dagger. "So, Porthos, what are we going to do about this? You could save yourself, escape from here. Ask me to kill them instead of you, and I'll let you leave right now."

The very suggestion was insulting, even if he believed it for a second. Porthos snorted. "No."

"This is a one-time offer. I will not extend it to you a second time. Perhaps you could even find help before Athos and Aramis die."

"Porthos-" Aramis started softly, but the bigger musketeer shook his head.

"I said, no! We're all leavin' together... or we don't leave at all."

Pierre eyed him, shaking his head. "Fascinating. I really don't understand. But you've made your choice. Get down on the ground, Porthos."

The musketeer hesitated, knowing that if he was going to try getting the upper hand on Pierre, it had to be now or never. He mentally gauged the distance between them, but without a weapon, wounded, and with his enemy hovering over Aramis, Porthos didn't see any way he could win. His heart sank.

Apparently he'd delayed too long. Pierre shrugged and turned to Aramis, slamming his dagger point first into the marksman's shoulder. Aramis's agonized cry flooded the hall and chilled Porthos to the bone.

"Alright, leave 'im alone!" he shouted, holding up his hands.

"One," Pierre hummed, twisting the dagger and drawing another scream. "Two…" The blade was torqued around again in time to his counting.

"I'm movin'!" Porthos bellowed, sinking painfully down to his knees.

"Three.  _All_ the way down, Porthos." Pierre wrenched the knife once more; though Aramis was clearly trying to hold back his cries, no one could have remained silent under such torture.

Fists clenched, desiring nothing more than to punch a hole through the sadist's very chest, Porthos quickly flattened himself on the floor to spare Aramis any more of the cruel treatment. His eyes connected with his friend's, both sharing a moment of despair while Pierre let go of the dagger—leaving it stuck in Aramis's shoulder—and strode forward.

Porthos thought briefly of trying to attack when Pierre was close enough, but it would be too hard to get upright in time from his prone position. Their captor didn't give him a chance, anyway. Pierre grabbed the discarded riding crop on his way to Porthos, allowing him to swing the weapon from some distance.

The rod connected with the side of Porthos's head and he knew nothing more.

.o.O.o.

"Captain. Any news on your wayward musketeers?"

D'Artagnan fought not to fidget as he and Captain Treville stood in front of the Cardinal's desk. Their search the night before had been utterly fruitless, though he'd been told by multiple people that someone had been around asking about the men. D'Artagnan hadn't slept at all and was finding his temper to be on a fine thread indeed. Treville had already warned him not to speak, the captain now shooting another sharp look at him as a reminder.

"Nothing so far," Treville replied. "I fear we may be running out of time."

"And then we lose the chance to catch him before more soldiers go missing, if the pattern holds," the Cardinal mused. As though that was the more pressing concern, that  _he_ might lose more men, as though the deaths of the three musketeers wouldn't be enough of a tragedy-

D'Artagnan's thoughts derailed when the captain gave him a swift kick, as though he could already hear the tirade the young musketeer was about to unleash. D'Artagnan bit his tongue.

"We're still looking into the connections between the two occurrences," Treville explained. "It seems that someone may have targeted my men specifically, asking around the city about them, following an incident in town some days ago. It seemed similar to an affair with your own Red Guard. I believe Captain Blanchet informed you of the situation between Lorens, Bertran, and another man recently?"

"You mean the vicomte," Richelieu grumbled with a dour look. "Yes. But if you believe the vicomte to be responsible for this, I can assure you-"

"We're not making any accusations at this point," Treville hastily assured him. His side-eyed look at d'Artagnan once again kept the musketeer from grumbling. "It may be a long shot, but we came to ask you about the funeral in question where this took place. Bocuse, I believe the name was."

"Yes, I believe," Richelieu said. "What of it?"

"What do you know of the family?"

The Cardinal sighed, setting his hands on the desk and shaking his head. "I knew little of Phillipe. The donations to the church came mainly at the continuing bequest of his wife, but she's been dead some twenty years now." He paused, then snorted. "I suppose with Phillipe's death, their son Pierre will have inherited whatever remained."

"Pierre." Treville shook his head. "I'm not familiar with the Bocuse family. They haven't been at court?"

"I should say not. Phillipe never showed interest, and Pierre…" The Cardinal clicked his tongue. "No, I don't find it surprising they were never out in society."

"Why, what's wrong with the son?" d'Artagnan demanded, ignoring the warning huff from Treville. He didn't back down as the Cardinal's appraising look turned his way.

After a minute, Richelieu said, "Nothing, at least that I ever knew. To hear his mother talk, he was possessed by demons as a boy. Even brought him to me when he was just a lad for an exorcism. I didn't suppose a few dead animals made him  _evil_ , merely a curious child, but the Lady Bocuse insisted there was something wrong with him."

"But you didn't believe it?" Treville asked.

The Cardinal huffed. "I hardly see what any of this has to do with-"

"Did he have a scar on his cheek?" d'Artagnan interrupted with a gesture to his own face, going on a sudden hunch. "Maybe shaped like a cross?"

"D'Artagnan," Treville hissed.

Richelieu, however, seemed taken aback rather than annoyed. "His mother had already tried to 'purify' him with a heated crucifix. How did you-"

"Then he's the one who's been asking questions about Athos, Porthos, and Aramis!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, ignoring the fine line between urgency and disrespect. "It's him!"

"We don't know anything for sure," the captain warned him.

"And the first woman I spoke to even said there was something about him that didn't seem right," d'Artagnan barreled on, eager to have a lead at last. "Maybe it was whatever his mother sensed."

The Cardinal took a breath, drawing their attention. "I… remember the boy," he said distantly. "Even now. There was nothing— _nothing—_ to suggest the Devil himself was in possession of him, but…"

"But?" Treville prodded.

"He gave me all the right answers, said all the right things. He seemed an ordinary child. I thought perhaps it was just due to the mother's quite vocal concerns that I found myself thinking there was something… not… sane. But as I said, there was no evidence of the Devil at work, so I said a prayer over him and they left. It was the only time I ever saw the son. Lady Bocuse passed away not long after and I put it from my mind."

"That's got to be it, then!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, a hand falling to his sword hilt as he spun towards Treville. "Captain, we  _know_ he's the one who's been asking questions about Athos and the others, and we know he had been close to the Red Guard only days before they were taken. We need to go find Bocuse!"

"We have no evidence," Treville shot back. "I agree it's suspicious circumstances, but they are just that: circumstances. And yes, before you argue," he added, preventing d'Artagnan from doing just that. "We should at least go speak to the man, ask him about what drew his interest to our three." He turned to Richelieu. "Do you know where I might find Bocuse?"

"I can tell you where the family manor is, or was," the Cardinal replied. "Beyond that, I have no idea."

Good enough. It was a start, and the first real lead they'd had since the three had disappeared. D'Artagnan took a breath, pleading silently for his friends to hold on just a little longer.

.o.O.o.

Aramis wearily watched Pierre bind Porthos's hands together, trying to ignore the tortured throbbing of his shoulder. The blade protruded from his shoulder like a skewer through a pig, and the slightest movement reduced the musketeer to breathless waves of agony. He prayed to God above to give him strength to endure the pain as penance for what he had done to Athos.

"What shall we do about this, Aramis?" Pierre asked evenly, sounding neither angered nor anxious. He flicked a glance over his shoulder at the marksman. "I believe Porthos has forfeited the game."

"Please," Aramis whispered, closing his eyes. "Please just leave him."

And yet he knew what Pierre knew: even discounting Athos, it was now two musketeers against one kidnapper. Even if Pierre was confident that Porthos was out of commission, the man had taken no chances so far. His safest bet would be to even the odds, and besides… how could Aramis pass as a villain instead of a victim now that he had been sorely wounded? This twisted little game was likely about to progress into its final phase, and they were out of time.

"He made his decision," Pierre said with a shrug. "So I'll leave it to you: pistol shot or garrote?"

"Just leave him be," Aramis pleaded again, even knowing the futility of it.

As expected, Pierre only shot him an ugly smile. "Every game has rules, Aramis. And they cannot be broken. But very well. If you won't decide, we'll do it my way."

"Wait," Aramis urged weakly as their captor drew the wire garrote from his pocket and leaned over the still unconscious Porthos. The marksman tried to struggle, but broke off with an anguished gasp. "Wait…"

He could only watch as Pierre wrapped the wire in his palms and placed the free length over Porthos's throat. Aramis tried to struggle again, but it was futile.

"Wait," he said once more, desperation bringing strength to his voice. "If you spare him, I'll give you what you want."

Pierre paused, looking back at Aramis in curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"Kill me. Leave Porthos here, give him a fighting chance. You can have me. Kill me."

The responding chuckle was dry and without emotion. "You believe my interest is in killing you, and you alone? I'd heard you had quite the ego-"

"I know that's not what you're after, but I can give you what you  _do_ want," Aramis cut over him, even stronger now. There was only one way out of this for any of them that he could see, and at best it was a fool's hope. Even if he played this right, their lives would all depend on Athos.

But there was no one Aramis trusted more than his brothers.

Meeting Pierre's eyes, unable to fight off the grimace of pain with every movement, Aramis continued, "You killing us isn't what your game is about. It never was. That's just how you clean up afterwards. Just like you killed the Red Guard soldiers."

Pierre didn't dispute the fact, and Aramis knew his hunch had been right about how they'd been "returned".

"No, alive or dead, we fascinate you because of what you aren't able to feel that we do. You don't want to kill  _us_ … you want to kill  _that_. Your game wasn't about us dying, it was about us breaking, that's why you keep having me ask Athos if he..." He took a breath and hurried on. "See, all three of us might have been there that day, but Athos is the one you have locked up in the cellar. And Athos is the one who told that mob they'd have to go through him to get to me."

Aramis narrowed his eyes, noting that Pierre had fallen silent, the garrote slack in his grip.

"He's the one you really want. He's the one you want to break," he finished. The musketeer took a breath.  _Forgive me, Athos._  "And I know how."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone worried about what exactly Aramis has in mind, read on, we've reached the endgame!

**Chapter 8**

Aramis didn't twitch as Pierre slowly stood from his position over Porthos and prowled closer to him instead. The blade in his shoulder was making it difficult to think, crippling pain leaving him almost unable to breathe. One way or another, this had to end, and he only had one idea left.

"I'm listening," Pierre said simply, expression revealing nothing. "How would you break Athos?"

"I want to bargain," Aramis retorted. "I'll tell you what you want to know. I'll even help you do it… but then Athos goes free, along with Porthos. You kill me, and Athos breaks. That means you win the game, so there's no reason either of them should die. Do we have an agreement?"

"Why should I not just kill you all anyway?" Pierre suggested.

Doubtless, that would be his plan regardless. Aramis wasn't foolish enough to think the madman would follow through on his end, but hopefully it wouldn't matter.

"Because that's not what you're after. Those are my terms. Let them walk out of here together, and I'll ensure you win the game."

Pierre regarded him for a long moment, seemingly mulling it over. His mouth twitched. "You fascinate me, Aramis. All three of you. For that, I will grant your request. Tell me what it would take for your bond to dissolve, and I will allow Athos and Porthos to leave. You understand that means your own death."

Aramis nodded wearily, then wished he hadn't as his shoulder throbbed in agony. "My death is what it will take," he replied. "Take me to Athos one more time. Tell him you own this place and have just returned and found me here, that you forced a confession about a prisoner in the cellar. It'll be all the proof he needs when I confirm what you say. If he's already broken, he will want to kill me himself, and you've won the game. If he still has faith in me, if he believes you're the one who's done all this, then killing me in front of him will destroy whatever remains of his spirit."

Closing his eyes against another wave of pain, Aramis gritted his teeth and finished, "Either way, I die, Athos is broken, and you win your game. You'll have proven that you're stronger than the ties that bind us together, the friendship that you can never feel. That you're stronger than  _us._ Isn't that what you want?" he finished bitterly, looking back to their captor.

Pierre narrowed his eyes another moment. The slight smile changed to a leer, and Aramis knew he'd won. The rest was up to Athos.

It took only a moment for Pierre to cut Aramis free of the column and bind his hands again behind him. Aramis didn't try to hold back the soft, agonized gasps every time the movement jostled his shoulder and the blade impaling him. Neither did he try to fight Pierre when he grabbed the marksman by the collar and shoved him back down towards the cellar.

Pausing only long enough to remove a torch from a bracket on the staircase, lighting their darkened path, Pierre forced Aramis down the passage to the heavy door at the end. He shoved it open and hauled the musketeer inside.

"Hello?" Pierre called anxiously, lifting the torch to touch another one already sitting in its sconce on the wall. The chamber illuminated more fully, casting a harsh glow across the figure sprawled out on the floor.

Aramis's heart twisted more painfully than the dagger through his shoulder to see Athos motionless and bloody. The swordsman was curled on his side, back to the door so that Aramis could see the stripes of red left through his shirt from the force of the rod. Bile rose in his throat; not even the knowledge that there'd been no other option, that Athos had given his blessing and forgiveness, could make this right.

Athos stirred weakly at the sudden light and noise, a soft whimper pulled from his throat as bound hands rose to shield his eyes.

"Monsieur, are you alright?" Pierre gasped—for all the world, it sounded like he actually cared. Aramis shivered.

"W-who…?" Athos rasped.

"Thank god, monsieur, I feared you might be dead. You are safe now." With a harsh shove, Pierre flung Aramis to the floor on his side next to Athos; Aramis cried out in agony as the blade was jarred in his shoulder. "I surprised this villain with my return from the country. He admitted to having used my absence to torture another man with impunity in my own home. I- I have never seen anything so cruel. Are you badly hurt, monsieur?"

Aramis twisted his head, slowly blinking twice when Athos caught his eyes.

"Yes… My back," Athos whispered immediately with an agonized groan. "He… he beat me…"

"Seems he brought you a gift with his return,  _Comte_ ," Aramis choked out with his ugliest snicker. Two more blinks, and now he could only hope Athos understood what he had to do. "I'm sure you're anxious for revenge."

Athos only glowered at him, jaw tightening. "You… betrayed me," he managed to wheeze. "I will… see to it… the magistrate orders you hanged."

"With respect, Comte," Pierre said earnestly. "This ruffian is on my property. He's admitted everything to me. I don't believe we need involve the magistrate. As lord of this manor, I must see to it that justice is done." He kicked Aramis onto his back, jostling the dagger and drawing another seething hiss of pain.

With his hands bound behind him, lying flat on his back was awkward and painful, though nothing compared to what he knew was still to come. Aramis glared up at Pierre as the madman pulled out the hated wire once more. As promised, he didn't try to fight.

But that didn't mean he didn't still feel the touch of dread that accompanied the delicate kiss of the wire across his throat. Pierre straddled him, hands smoothly landing on either side of the marksman's head so the wire was pulled taut. Not yet tightening to steal his life, but lingering over the mark already there.

"Wait," Athos murmured, groaning as he tried to roll up.

"Monsieur, he deserves to die-"

"Yes. But I'm the one he betrayed." Athos's hate-laden glare never left Aramis. "Now let me kill him with my own hands."

The pressure over Aramis's throat disappeared as Pierre sat up straighter with barely contained excitement. "Are you sure? You're badly wounded-"

"I have strength enough for this, I assure you."

Pierre nodded, though Aramis could see the ravenous light in his eyes as he pulled away. The madman had Athos untied in short notice, handing him the garrote.

"Are you sure?" he asked again. "This intruder tells me you were friends. If it's too much-"

"I've been waiting to do this. Just hold me steady so I can finish the job."

Pierre wasn't troubling to hide his smile now, helping Athos over to Aramis and kneeling beside him. "Do it," he whispered in the swordsman's ear. "Do it now."

Athos hovered over Aramis, not breaking eye contact for a second. "You know this must be done," he ground out.

Aramis took a breath. This was going to hurt. "Just make it swift."

Athos nodded. He exhaled.

And then he moved.

Dropping the wire garrote, Athos grabbed the hilt of the dagger protruding from Aramis's chest. He yanked it free as Aramis screamed from the pain as hot as acid. But Athos, with a blade in hand, never missed. In one fluid motion, he twisted towards Pierre and thrust the blade straight and true through the madman's heart.

Pierre gasped, jerking back instinctively and looking down at the weapon. One trembling hand started to rise, but Athos only torqued the dagger around in a vicious twist.

Blood trickled from the corner of Pierre's mouth as he stared at Athos.

"But… he betrayed you. You- you wanted to kill him. You  _hate_  him."

"I have told you four times now," Athos replied, voice as lethal as the edge of his blade. "I do not hate him. Nothing was ever going to change that. And if you want him… first you have to get through me."

Pierre continued to stare. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Fascinating…"

And then his eyes dimmed, and whatever soul he might have had fled his mortal body.

Aramis closed his eyes with welling relief, feeling Athos slump over him. "Thank god," he murmured. "Athos… I am so sorry."

"It was not… your doing…"

Athos sounded alarmingly weak, forcing Aramis's eyes open to examine the swordsman. Athos's lids fluttered; between the lack of food and water, not to mention the ordeal of the past day and a half and the wounds each carried, neither of the two were fit for much. It seemed the remainder of Athos's strength had been spent on killing their tormentor.

"No, Athos, stay awake," Aramis pleaded, trying to pull away and at least get his hands out from under him. It was too late. Athos collapsed, unconscious; one arm draped over the marksman in protection, and his head rested on Aramis's stomach.

Aramis fell still. His own strength was long since gone as well, dripping slowly onto the floor now without the blade in place to hold back the blood. He would not be able to get himself free, or carry himself and Athos back upstairs.

"Alright, then," he said softly and closed his eyes once more. "At least the bastard didn't win. We outlasted him, Athos. In the end, that's all that matters."

.o.O.o.

"Something isn't right," d'Artagnan growled as he and the captain drew near the estate where Lord Bocuse had lived. His eyes darted around the property, set back from the road by a long drive.

"What makes you say that?" Treville asked—not as though he disagreed, but carefully measured in a way d'Artagnan couldn't be, not now.

D'Artagnan slapped a hand against the wrought iron fence gate blocking the way. It squealed a mournful moan on rusty hinges, not latched. "Look at this place. The man isn't even real nobility but he takes the title of lord to keep up noble appearances… but then doesn't bother to see to it his own home is maintained? The hedge is overgrown, the stone is crumbling. It doesn't seem anyone is even living here."

"We didn't ask how Bocuse died," Trevilled pointed out. "Perhaps he took ill some time ago and couldn't continue his role as master of the house."

"Then either the son wasn't living here to take up that mantel, or appearances are of no interest to him." D'Artagnan felt the exhaustion threatening to claim him, preventing him from holding his mounting panic at bay. He kicked at the gate, ignoring its shrieking metal protest, and shouted, " _Damn_ it, if they aren't here-"

"Get a hold of yourself, d'Artagnan," Treville ordered, hand on the musketeer's shoulder as he shoved his way brusquely past. "Losing our heads won't be of any use to the others. We might as well stop speculating and go take a closer look."

Treville was right. D'Artagnan clenched his fists, following his captain up to the main house. On closer inspection, it was clear that the grounds weren't the only things in disrepair. A layer of dust covered the windows; the wood of the shutters had already started to rot. Through another fence, the courtyard to the side looked positively mangy.

Nevertheless, Treville banged on the front door with a gloved fist. "Hello!" he barked out with authority. "Open in the name of the King!"

There was no reply from within. The wind blew a hollow sigh through the foliage bordering the house. No dogs barked, no footsteps of servants hurrying to meet them, and no sign of any missing musketeers.

D'Artagnan saw Treville's jaw tighten before he tried again, pounding on the door. And still nothing.

"D'Artagnan… I don't think anyone has been here in years."

"We can't give up," d'Artagnan exclaimed. "Captain, we can't!  _Athos_! Porthos? Aramis, where are you? Hello!" He leaped forward, slamming his hand over and over again into the front door. "Hello! Porthos, are you here? Aramis! Athos,  _somebody_!"

The musketeer wasn't even aware of the captain hauling him away from the door until his fist met empty air. Treville was yelling in his ear, something about calming himself but also apologies and hollow assurances that all wasn't yet lost, but d'Artagnan heard none of it. In his heart of hearts, he knew—just  _knew_ —if they didn't find the three missing musketeers soon,  _now_ , it would be too late.

"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan," Treville murmured again, voice cutting through the fog. "We're not giving up. There were others attending the funeral. We can talk to them, see if someone knows where the Bocuse family have been living in recent years."

"Even if we knew that, it doesn't mean that's where he took them!" They had nothing, nothing at all. They could stay and search these grounds, of course, but if the men were somewhere else then it would be wasting precious time…

The thud on the door was so loud that both d'Artagnan and Treville whirled as one, each with a sword in hand. D'Artagnan stared dumbly at the house; he didn't believe in ghosts or spirits…

Again, there was a thud from the other side of the door, heavy enough as to shake the timbers.

"Hello?" Treville called, advancing with sword still drawn.

"Captain…"

" _Porthos_!"

D'Artagnan and Treville flung themselves at the door, slamming into it with their shoulders over and over. It finally burst in on its hinges, thankfully missing Porthos who seemed to have pulled himself out of the way.

"Where are the others?" Treville demanded, dropping to the musketeer's side and drawing his parrying dagger to slice through the ropes.

Porthos closed his eyes, head lolling. "Pierre must've took 'em… he's been keepin' Athos locked up… downstairs…"

"D'Artagnan, go."

Trusting the captain to take care of Porthos—who d'Artagnan now realized had left a trail of blood all the way in from the hall where he had somehow dragged himself from—the musketeer raced towards a set of stairs descending down into a subterranean level. The air grew cold and dank down here, but there was a light at the other end of the corridor, flickering as though from a torch. D'Artagnan's grip on his sword tightened. This Pierre was going to pay for every mark he found on his friends.

As he entered the old wine cellar, though, d'Artagnan stumbled to a stop. The body of a man he didn't recognize lay with a knife through the heart. Beside him, at last, were Athos and Aramis.

Athos was slumped over the marksman, presenting his back to d'Artagnan, who felt a rush of rage to see his friend had obviously been whipped with something. Aramis was bleeding from the shoulder, hands somewhere underneath him. But his eyes blinked open, veiled and hazy yet alive.

"Took you… long enough," he whispered, though his smile seemed haunted. "Knew you'd come."

"It's alright now." D'Artagnan knelt, taking Athos gently in his arms to maneuver him off of Aramis. "We're going to get you out of here."

"Porthos?"

"Treville's got him upstairs. We might not have even come in if not for him. What did Bocuse want from you?"

Helping roll Aramis onto his uninjured side so he could free his hands, d'Artagnan winced to see the marks on his friend's throat. He tore off a strip of the dead man's shirt, wadding it up to press against the bleeding shoulder wound.

Aramis arched on the floor, gasping in pain and panting. "Wanted us to break."

"But you didn't." D'Artagnan looked again at the strips of red on Athos's back, and his face darkened. "At least Bocuse paid for what he did."

Aramis hissed again, but he turned his head the other way. "Pierre didn't do that."

D'Artagnan glanced at him sharply but didn't press the matter. There would be time to get answers later, but first things first. "We should fetch a physician," he said, more to keep Aramis awake as the marksman's eyes started to flutter closed. "He could come treat your wound here if you aren't able to move-"

"No." Aramis swallowed, finally tilting his head towards Athos and reaching out to him. "No, d'Artagnan. He kept Athos down here- hasn't seen daylight since we were taken. Don't make him spend a second longer here in the dark." Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan, eyes bright with moisture. "We just need to go home."

.o.O.o.

Athos only had vague moments of sensation.

Arms lifting him, careful and protective.

Sun overwhelmingly bright, something rocking beneath him like the jostling of a cart.

Voices telling him over and over that they were almost home. He was safe now. They'd found him. They were all going to be fine.

There was something important he needed to say, something vital, but what was it… oh yes.

"Find Porthos," he muttered.

"He's right next to you. He's here, Athos."

Darkness.

Once he thought he heard Treville saying to use his quarters, as Athos didn't have a room at the garrison.

Being laid on a bed and rolling onto his back, erupting in pain.

Darkness again. He hated the darkness.

More harried voices suggesting they move a cot into Aramis's room, something about nightmares, something about Aramis calming down if he saw Athos for himself. The suggestion that they not all be roomed separately.

Lifted again. Another bed, carefully propped on his side with a soft pile of pillows to keep him from rolling over.

It wasn't until he heard Aramis's voice that Athos finally began returning fully to consciousness. He opened his eyes to find himself not bound to the grate in the cold, dark room, but back at the garrison in Aramis's room. Said musketeer was close at hand, lying in his own bed while another man stood over him. Aramis was writhing in pain.

"Get back!" Athos hissed, instinctively trying to scramble off of the cot. When a hand quickly gripped his shoulder, he lashed out only to find himself staring up at his captain.

"It's alright," Treville said firmly, squeezing Athos's shoulder. "Athos, it's alright. The physician needs to tend Aramis's wound."

"Athos… you're awake…"

Athos looked from the captain to Aramis, meeting his friend's eyes. Sure enough, the man looming overhead didn't seem to be trying to hurt Aramis, only threading his needle through the marksman's shoulder. Yes… Aramis had been hurt, bleeding. Athos had ripped a blade out of his body…

Sinking back down onto the cot he was laid out on, Athos slowly exhaled. They were home.

"But you-" Aramis went on, voice tinged with anxiety. "You're alright?"

Athos was too tired to say anything, but he reached out and gripped the wrist extended towards him. Gently, he offered two squeezes in reply.  _Yes. I'm alright._

Aramis relaxed back into his own pillows, nodding back.

"Here, since you're awake," Treville's voice spoke up again, then a bowl was thrust in front of his nose. "It's broth. You need to eat."

"But slowly," the physician warned without taking his eyes off his own task.

Athos's stomach spasmed at the very mention of food, desperate to fill his belly. The swordsman wordlessly let the captain help him sit up in the bed and lean forward over the bowl. His back ached but he was too hungry to even notice. The first spoonful of hot broth was possibly the most decadent food Athos had ever tasted.

"Where's Porthos?" he managed to ask between bites.

"Safe, in his room next door," Treville assured him. "Getting some rest. We put another cot in so d'Artagnan could stay and hopefully get some sleep of his own."

"I've already stitched him," the physician added with just enough dismay that Athos knew Porthos was still his old self. He wanted to smile, but couldn't manage. He also wanted to ask for more details, not having seen his friend for the duration of their captivity, not even knowing what wounds he'd taken that necessitated needlework in the first place.

But he was so tired, and after nothing but freezing cold stone and fleeting, fitful unconsciousness for nearly two days, the cot might as well have been the finest feather mattress fit for a king. Athos slurped the broth down, torn between hoping for more and wanting just to close his eyes, now that he could do so safely.

His body must have made the decision for him, for in the next moment, Treville was taking the bowl away and helping him lie back down before he collapsed. A blanket fell over him like a comforting weight, banishing any risk of the cold creeping back into his bones.

"We'll be close at hand," Treville assured him through the growing fog. "Rest, my friend. The doctor will see to your wounds when he's finished with Aramis. I'll keep an eye on the others."

Good.

Athos gave in.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos :) I can't believe what a great response this story got, thank you from the bottom of my heart! ^_^
> 
> And at last, we can't have the H without the C. Enjoy some caretaking and comfort and the start down the road to recovery. And then we shall close this book :)

**Chapter 9**

"Aramis, you've only just been stitched back together yourself. Let the doctor take care of Athos-"

"I need to do it."

Athos opened his eyes again, relieved when there was light on the other side of his lids. The physician was still by the bed, but Aramis's shoulder was now wrapped in a bandage and his arm secured in a sling, and the marksman was on his feet.

Treville was close by, the captain looking exasperated. "Aramis-"

"Thank you for your help, doctor. I can take it from here."

"It- it certainly would be no trouble for me to handle it instead-"

"I said,  _I need to do this!_ "

Athos didn't know how much the captain or doctor knew yet about his wounds—specifically how he'd sustained them—but he fully understood why Aramis needed to be the one to put him back together. Taking pity on his friend, he mumbled from the cot, "I trust Aramis is capable of dealing with a few lacerations. Thank you for your assistance, doctor, but let Aramis handle the rest."

Unsure, the physician turned to Treville, who in turn eyed Athos. The musketeer didn't break his gaze, and finally Treville nodded.

"Very well. Come, doctor, I'll show you out."

Athos waited as the physician gathered up his things, leaving a bottle of pain draught with cautious directions not to use too much. Then he and the captain left, leaving Athos and Aramis alone. Aramis huffed and muttered under his breath. Athos watched him, noting his friend wasn't meeting his eye.

"How bad?" Athos asked softly. Aramis's head jerked his direction, and Athos clarified, "Your wound."

"Oh. This? Just a scratch."

Athos snorted lightly. Though he wasn't sure why he would have expected any different of an answer.

"I'm only relieved you understood the message," Aramis added, looking away again, fixated on his task of unfolding and smoothing a pile of linens to use as bandages, then refolding them again awkwardly one-handed.

"Yes, it was a good thing he brought me a blade. I'm only sorry I had to rip it out of you before I could use it."

"Yes, well…" Aramis made a sound like he was trying to laugh, though it fell flat. "I suppose I had that coming."

"I fail to see how."

"Athos," Aramis sighed. He turned back to the swordsman at last, face crumpling. "Must we keep up pretenses? I can't bear dancing around the matter. Let us say it and be done: I tortured you."

"Your dramatics continue to astound. You hit me a few times."

"With a whip."

"Merely a crop. And I would add, in order to protect our brother. If it's any consolation, I would have done the same. Now are you going to tend to the wounds or not?" Struggling upright in the bed, still dizzier and weaker than he would have liked, Athos tried to shrug out of his shirt. In spite of his dismissal, it did hurt to move.

Aramis hurried to help pull the shirt down off his shoulders, carefully extricating his arms. Athos couldn't help but hiss in discomfort as the fabric rubbed over his wrists. He hadn't realized before how shredded the skin was from hours of struggling to loosen the bonds even a fraction.

"I'm sorry." Aramis sounded miserable, leaving Athos to shake his head.

"Aramis. My friend, you have nothing to apologize for. We both know you did what you had to."

"I could have left them looser, perhaps you would have been able to slip out of them. I could have-"

The marksman cut off, dipping one of the linens into the bowl of clean water left by the physician. Athos couldn't restrain a soft noise of longing at the sound of the cool water splashing back into the bowl. Aramis immediately reached over to the bed, picking up a water skin that had been left, and handing it to Athos.

"Slowly," he cautioned.

The advice was difficult to follow, as parched as Athos was. He took a long draught, relishing the water even more than he did a bottle of wine after a long day. It felt as though years had passed since he'd last had a drink, besides the broth Treville had given him.

"How long were we there?" he asked once he'd drank his fill, trying not to tense as Aramis moved around behind him with the dripping rag. The first touch against the wounds still made him inhale sharply, though.

"Two nights. This would have been the second full day."

Athos's shoulders sagged. He shuddered slightly against the cold water that trickled down his back as Aramis dabbed gingerly at the lacerations. Though they continued to sting and ache, it was nothing compared to the disquiet he felt.

"Is that really all it was?" he couldn't help but murmur. It had seemed so much longer. That he was already so weakened after so short a time, Athos felt a rush of something that wasn't quite shame, but certainly wasn't pride.

"You were kept in the dark," Aramis pointed out. "I doubt you slept much. Between sleep deprivation, hunger and thirst, and not being able to move… little wonder it felt longer." He paused, then in a lower voice: "Wounded alone in the dark and cold, I know that he wanted to torture you, and I know that such a thing would be effective. Athos, I should have…"

He trailed off with an air of helplessness. Athos closed his eyes, understanding.

"Aramis, you did nothing wrong," he tried again. He wanted to assure Aramis this would not become his Savoy, but Athos wasn't sure at the moment he could promise this wouldn't leave a permanent mark. And not the ones on his back.

"Come now, Athos," Aramis said as though knowing exactly what was going through Athos's mind, as he so often did. "I know you. You don't have to pretend you weren't affected."

Athos sighed. He supposed there was no use acting otherwise, only he was eager that Aramis shouldn't have the additional guilt put onto his shoulders needlessly. The truth was he was indeed left with horror and even fear at the memories of crushing blackness and immobility, suspended in nothingness, as near to hell as he could imagine.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, sharper than he'd intended. "That it was awful? Then let it be said. I didn't know where you or Porthos were, or whether you'd been harmed. I didn't know if it was day or night or how long I still had to remain strong when all strength had been taken from me. Yes, Aramis, I was quite affected. But every awful thing was of that man's doing, not yours."

"But I-"

"And in fact, his mistake in sending you to me is what allowed me to hold on." Athos paused, then shook his head. "You kept us alive."

"If not unharmed."

Well, they never emerged from anything unharmed. No blame should be put on the musketeer for that. By now, Aramis had finished sponging off the lash marks on Athos's back. None were deep enough for stitches nor open enough for concern of infection, so Aramis left them unbandaged and helped Athos into a clean shirt. From there he moved to start cleaning and dressing Athos's wrists. The swordsman bore it stoically.

"You're owed an apology as well," he finally said after the silence had lingered on for a while.

Aramis frowned without looking up from his work. "Why?"

"I don't remember anything from our capture, but I gather it was on the way back from the tavern. I believe I was… not much help to you."

"You know the things I said about your drinking were not said with sincerity."

"They were also not entirely untrue. If his intent had been murder instead of kidnapping, I could not have stopped him." He shook his head. "I don't believe I could have lived with that."

"Well, if his intent had been murder, you  _wouldn't_ have lived with that. He would have killed you, too."

Athos glared at him. "You know what I mean." But he was relieved to hear more of the usual  _Aramis_ back in his friend's voice. Wrists bandaged now, Athos took another long, grateful pull from the water skin. Then he leaned wearily back on the cot and closed his eyes.

"And Porthos?" he asked with exhaustion.

"He'll make a full recovery as long as I can keep him off that leg."

Athos didn't want to ask if Aramis had been forced to cause that wound as well, so held his peace. He would get the full story when he checked in with Porthos later, as he was sure it would be a more accurate telling in regards to how much blame Aramis thought he ought to bear.

After a moment, he realized Aramis hadn't returned to his own bed, and was sitting silently on the edge of the cot. Athos opened his eyes and gave his friend a quizzical look.

"You have doctored me as much as I require. You should rest."

Aramis half-chuckled, then looked away. "Yes. Only I… I'm afraid that when I open my eyes, the nightmare will be true and I'll have killed you after all."

Athos didn't say anything for a second, then nodded. "And I'm afraid that when I open  _my_  eyes there will be nothing but blackness and silence and cold. So let us make a deal. I'll stay here, and when you wake you'll see me quite alive, and I'll see you and know I'm not… back there."

He thought some tension eased away from Aramis's shoulders. Athos himself was silently thanking either d'Artagnan or Treville to have thought to let them stay in the same room. As long as Aramis was there, he felt safe to let himself slip away, not into unconsciousness but a true slumber at last.

.o.O.o.

Porthos wasn't sure how long he slept; he was just relieved that he'd been allowed to sleep at all. There was no sunlight peeping through the narrow window of his barracks room but he could hear the sound of fellow musketeers down in the courtyard, so he suspected it wasn't too late into the night. His leg throbbed. But he was alive.

A light snore drew Porthos's attention to the cot set up beside his bed. D'Artagnan was sprawled across it, gangly limbs dangling over the edge towards Porthos. Relaxing back down a bit, the musketeer couldn't help but offer the sleeping lad a sad smile.

"Sorry I missed our breakfast, pup."

"You know, he refused to rest while you three were still out there. It's a wonder he didn't collapse from exhaustion."

Porthos hadn't realized the captain was standing just inside the door, but he also wasn't surprised. One look at Treville's face said their commanding officer probably hadn't gotten much sleep, himself.

"'e's a tenacious one," Porthos agreed with fondness.

"Tenacious and insubordinate to boot. I ought to have him on stable duty for the rest of the week."

Porthos canted his head, giving Treville a knowing smile. He wasn't fooled for a second. Sure enough, the captain shrugged as he pulled up a chair and sat beside Porthos's bed.

"Though I suppose I can't do that. We might not have found you in time if not for his tireless efforts." Treville shook his head, watching the lad sleep. "He's a fine musketeer." Turning back to Porthos, he gestured to the bandage around his thigh. "How is it?"

"Eh…" Porthos glanced down as well with raised brow. "Feels like I got stabbed. But th' bastard's dead, and Athos an' Aramis are alive. Can't ask for more than that. Doc patch 'em up?"

Treville nodded his assent. "Porthos… what happened? What was he after?"

Porthos took a long, slow breath then shook his head. "Captain, you ever come across a man, touched in th' head... not addled, but… no soul? A man who can't feel like normal people do, not love or friendship or nothin'? Brain's workin' just fine, but nothin' in his heart?"

"Once or twice."

"He said we were fascinatin'. Because we were so close an' he didn't know what that felt like. So he wanted to break that bond. For no reason… just to see if he could."

Bit by bit, Porthos told Treville everything that he knew. How they had been captured, the rules of the game where Athos was supposed to believe Aramis had simply turned on him, the increasingly violent orders Aramis had to carry out in order to keep them all alive until help came.

"So Athos's wounds…"

"I wasn't there," Porthos replied. "But yeah, I heard everythin' Pierre told 'im to do. Aramis was a wreck over it."

"So I can imagine. And you?"

Porthos shook his head with bitterness. "Mostly left me alone, 'cept when he needed Aramis to do somethin'. All I did was  _sit_ there. Maybe without me there-"

"Then I would be mourning the deaths of some of my finest men right now instead of trying to put them back together. I don't believe it mattered whether he had leverage to force Aramis to play along or not, Porthos. He would have killed them either way. From what Aramis has told me, the only reason they were able to best him was because you forced his hand while they were still well enough to use it to their advantage. You were crucial here, Porthos."

The musketeer wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but his captain's absolution in the matter was no less a relief because of it. Porthos nodded, then sighed.

"Athos is the one 'e really seemed to want to hurt. Just don't understand why. Or how come no one's realized before how mad he was an' put him away."

"As to why, normal men like you and me will never understand. As to the latter, I may have more insight on. We investigated the family a little deeper once you'd been seen to. It seems the parents knew something wasn't right with him. After the mother's death, the father kept Pierre more or less cloistered, dismissed most of the servants, and moved to a smaller apartment in the city. Few people even knew of Pierre until the father's funeral, and then there was no one to keep him away from the public. The servants refused to stay on."

"All but one," Porthos grumbled, remembering Jean's lack of concern for the atrocities he was helping commit. "Probably not much more sane than Pierre." Another thought occurred to him. "Captain, there were two of the Red Guard…"

With a dark look, Treville nodded. "Yes. They were found. I've already been to inform their captain that their murderer has been found and killed. It's not much comfort, but perhaps it'll help provide closure for the families." He paused, then finished, "One of them was beaten as well. I take it he was in Athos's place."

For a moment, Porthos didn't say anything. He recalled what Pierre had said, how the previous game had ended the way he thought it would. The musketeer closed his eyes. "I guess when he thought the other had betrayed him… he turned against 'im in return. That's what Pierre was tryin' to get Athos to do."

But that would never have happened, Porthos thought with almost desperate determination. The thought of their brotherhood dissolving especially in such a horrible way made him short of breath. Suddenly he wanted nothing but to be at his brothers' sides, to see for himself once again that they were alive and well and together.

"I wanna see 'em," he decided, sitting up in the bed and throwing the blanket aside.

Treville quickly stood, holding up a hand. "You need to rest-"

"I've been restin', now I need to see they're alright."

With an exasperated sigh, the captain shook his head but swiftly slid in to pull Porthos's arm across his shoulders for a prop. "I don't know why the four of you insist on ignoring orders every time I give them to you. One would almost forget I'm the captain."

"Nah, you'll always be our captain." That madman had said no one ever came for the Red Guard soldiers… but Treville had come for them. Porthos's heart warmed in spite of the fire shooting through his leg with every step as he limped across the floor. "Thank you."

"It's only for a moment," Treville griped. "Then you're coming back to bed."

"That's not what I meant."

"P'rthos?"

D'Artagnan sat up on the cot, eyes unfocused.

"Don't even think about it," Treville immediately snapped. "D'Artagnan, you are not to leave that cot-"

"Are you going to see the others? Wait, I'm coming, too."

Porthos grinned as both he and d'Artagnan ignored Treville's muttered complaints about musketeers who couldn't do as they were told. Besides, much as he hated to admit it, having the support on two sides made walking much easier as d'Artagnan immediately took Porthos's other arm around his own shoulders.

Then together, the three made their slow, painful trek towards the room next door.

.o.O.o.

Aramis spooned some of the hot soup into his mouth, grateful for every warm bite. He'd tried to sleep, truly he had, but just as he'd feared, it was a restless slumber filled with awful dreams. The marksman stole another look at Athos. He was placidly eating from a bowl of his own, nothing but the slightly distant look in his eyes to reveal any of his own discomfort.

Seeing him there was helpful, but the nightmare was still burned into Aramis's vision.

_The riding crop was heavy in his hand and heavy on Athos's back. Each strike flayed open another wicked stripe down the musketeer's unprotected body. Athos couldn't bear the attack silently, pleading for Aramis to stop. Aramis tried, desperately trying to drop the weapon, to turn away, ANYTHING, but his hand moved of its own volition, not taking orders from him._

_Beside him Pierre stood with smile stretching over the edges of his face, a dagger sticking from his chest. No blood spilled from his wounds, but Aramis's hands were coated in red. It was a wonder the rod didn't slip from his grasp._

_"He'll never forgive you for this," Pierre said, though his mouth never moved._

_"Stop!" Aramis begged, knowing somehow the madman was the one preventing him from ceasing his attack. "Please, he'll die!"_

_"He's already dead. Look."_

_And he was. Athos hung from blood-coated ropes, swaying with each strike._

_"No!" Aramis cried, still unable to stop. "Athos, forgive me…"_

_"Never," Athos's voice growled into his mind, spoken by some unseen phantasm, since the musketeer himself was dead…_

"Aramis, where are you?"

The marksman blinked, realizing he'd been holding the soupspoon halfway to his mouth, staring into the distance at the memory of the nightmare. He'd woken up with a cry, near panic, unfortunately waking Athos as well. But seeing his friend alive and well was the only thing that had brought him back to reality, Athos and the solid presence of his captain when Treville swooped in with firm orders to wake.

Turning to Athos now, Aramis tried for a smile. "Right here," he said lightly.

"If it would help to hear the words again, I do forgive you."

Aramis closed his eyes. "I know."

The sound of the door being pushed inwards had Aramis look up again to see Porthos limping in, supported on either side by d'Artagnan and Captain Treville.

"Porthos," Athos greeted, normally bland voice colored with true delight. "D'Artagnan."

"You're awake," d'Artagnan exclaimed cheerfully, reminding Aramis that the lad hadn't been able to speak to Athos himself yet.

"I was afraid you might sleep through supper, Porthos," Aramis put in, holding up his bowl. "How many meals does that make you've missed? I'm astonished you're still on your feet."

"Barely," Porthos grunted as he left his two supports to sit on the edge of Aramis's bed. "'m starvin'."

"I'll have more soup sent up," Treville assured them.

"An' maybe some wine for Athos, it's been a night or two since 'e had a drop."

The remark was said as a joke, the same thing any of them might have said under normal circumstances, but Aramis noted the shadow that crossed Athos's face.

"It's not even tempting at the moment," Athos said, almost to himself.

In the silence that followed, Treville straightened and nodded to the four. "I'll have Serge send more soup. And then I have some very important paperwork I must see to. I expect it will take me exactly fifteen minutes, and then Porthos and d'Artagnan are going back to the other room and you're going to rest. The physician says all four of you are suffering from exhaustion. Three of you from an extreme ordeal, and one of you who can't follow the simplest of commands."

"I think he means me," d'Artagnan confessed in an unapologetic undertone. It made Athos smile, and that alone did more to make Aramis feel better than any amount of rest.

Treville glared at d'Artagnan, but it was obviously just for show. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir," Aramis assured him with a tired but jaunty two-fingered salute.

Fixing them each with another stern look, the captain backed out of the room, giving them a moment together at last. Silence fell again, broken by the rumbling of Porthos's stomach.

"Here," Aramis said with a snort, handing him the rest of his own bowl. "This is my second helping anyway."

He half expected Porthos to refuse to take his food, but this was Porthos and that had been a foolish expectation. Porthos took the bowl with a nod of thanks and began slurping it down.

"I take it he didn't give you anything to eat in all that time, either," Athos mused, setting his own empty bowl aside.

Porthos shook his head in answer, still attacking the food with ravenous fervor. "Captain been in to see you?" he asked in between bites.

"Very briefly," Athos replied. "Aramis… woke abruptly."

Aramis winced, but didn't say anything. There would likely be a lot of "abrupt awakenings" in their near future. He saw Athos and Porthos trade a look and a nod. Nothing was spoken, but he knew when Athos returned to his apartments, Porthos would reclaim the role of going to Aramis on such occasions, as a balm against the nightmares.

Part of him wanted to be embarrassed to need to be looked after. But mostly, he was grateful to know they would be there. At any rate, it was nothing new for Porthos; he had been the reason Aramis didn't lose himself to the nightmares after Savoy.

"Anyway," Porthos went on, looking to Aramis. "Those two Red Guard? Treville says they were found. Dead."

"Red Guard?" Athos asked.

"The players he had in his first game," Aramis explained, thinking over it. How on earth had Treville and d'Artagnan put all the pieces together?

"Yeah, seems the one wasn't as forgivin' as Athos. Reckon he killed the other, or at least didn't stop Pierre from doin' it. Then was killed himself. They didn't hold on."

"But we did." Aramis looked between the others. "He was so sure we would break. At least we didn't give him that."

"He didn't know you nearly as well as he thought he did," d'Artagnan maintained staunchly.

"Funny," Porthos said. "The thing 'e was convinced made us vulnerable is what saved us in th' end. Well, that an' d'Artagnan."

"Yes, I believe we owe him one. Or several," Athos agreed with a raised brow.

D'Artagnan smiled, shrugging easily. "You would have done the same for me."

"Too right, we would," Porthos declared, clapping him on the back. "From the sound of things, you had the captain runnin' ragged."

"An Inseparable in the making," Aramis added, smiling.

For a moment, they lapsed into silence once more, reveling in the simple joy of being alive, the joy of food, water, light, of each other's presence.

Feeling lighter, Aramis set his hands on the shoulders of the two closest to him. As long as they had this, they had everything they needed to heal in body and soul, and to emerge stronger.

"All for one," he murmured.

The other three shared a look, then immediately returned the gesture, completing the circle.

"And one for all."


End file.
